


Hunt or Be Hunted: A Scabior Tale

by DreamChaos



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-18
Updated: 2017-10-23
Packaged: 2018-02-09 09:26:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 27
Words: 118,924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1977666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DreamChaos/pseuds/DreamChaos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A dark look into the Second Wizarding War, where young metamorphmagus Olive poses as a Snatcher to seek revenge for the death of her father. But, things certainly go awry when her disguise is found out and Scabior wants a revenge all of his own.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I own absolutely nothing in the Harry Potter franchise. This is for the personal enjoyment of myself and others. Olive Westin is my creation, but I acknowledge that I have no rights to her whatsoever as long as she stays in the Harry Potter universe.
> 
> AN: I do not, under any circumstances, condone the behavior of this story. There is a definite line between fiction and reality. If you ever feel you are being mentally, physically, or emotionally abused, reach out to someone. This story includes: rape/non-con, extreme instances of violence, self-harm, alienation, manipulation, and behavior modification. It is explicit. - DC

 

_EDITED: 08/17/2015_

 

The girl held her breath as Scabior entered the tent. Though, to him and the rest of the Snatchers, Olive wasn't a girl at all - she was Xavier Booke, one half of the infamous Booke Twins that haunted muggleborns on the run. The longer they thought she was the middle-aged Snatcher, the better her chances.

She was a rarity, as Professor Dumbledore had once put it. Her mother had hated her since the day she'd been born. In her first pictures taken at the muggle hospital, a tuft of bright pink hair was clearly visible - everything about her befuddling the doctors. Olive had been told her mother left when she was barely six weeks old and remarried, having a second child later who didn't know she existed. She wanted nothing to do with the unusual.

Her father, on the other hand, thought she was the most amazing gift he'd ever been given. The muggle magic he used to be so fond of only paled in comparison to his colorful daughter. He thought she was the most special little girl in the whole world.

Olive did not always feel the same. It was difficult for her to control her appearance when she was a child and so she wasn't able to go out in public very often. Her father was scared someone would take her to make money or run experiments, even though no amount of research he did ever amounted to anything. There simply was nothing like Olive recorded and he wasn't about to let them steal her away. Homeschooling only further alienated her from children her own age and she began to grow jealous and resentful of other kids, who got to play outside at the park across the street. Day after day was occupied with her dolls and, later, her books.

"Your magic is beautiful," he told her once, sitting her down on her creaky bed for a much needed talk, "But, you can't show anyone you don't trust."

Olive did not believe it was magic. She did not believe it was beautiful. She was a freak and nothing more.

She was eleven and a half when she received her letter from Hogwarts. A tall, strange man in a funny cloak had delivered it to her since she was muggleborn, as they called it. Olive was sure it was a cruel joke until he suddenly disappeared and re-appeared in the room with two load cracks. This, she learned, was called _apparating_ \- and she would become quite skilled at it in her later years. It was on this first meeting when Dumbledore explained that Olive was a rarity. Muggles could birth a witch or wizard, but it was nearly unheard of to have a child who was a metamorphmagus. Not that it hadn't happened before, he'd assured Olive - who was afraid she would be outcast even in the wizarding world.

Her father was filled with even more excitement than she. When they were escorted to Diagon Alley later that month, his wide eyes scanned everything possible, grin plastered for days afterward. Olive had only peeked up a few times during their trip. At one point she bumped into a blonde boy about her age and knocked everything out of her arms, apologizing profusely while trying to gather her things from the ground. When he bent to help her, Olive's head and hair turned a bright pink and he gaped at her, while his father clacked his cane impatiently for him to hurry. Mortified, she hardly looked away from her feet after that.

Twenty-nine days before her twelfth birthday, Olive was sorted into Ravenclaw.

She was a hat stall, the decision taking almost a full five minutes. Her skin grew from pale to red as she waited, feeling all eyes in the room on her. Even the blonde boy from Diagon Alley, who was sorted ahead of her and sat over at the green table now, watched with a smirk. The Sorting Hat had told her she was too unfriendly toward others for Hufflepuff and she wasn't near brave enough for Gryffindor. It came down to Ravenclaw and Slytherin, which she thought were the green and blue tables. Maybe she ought to have read into the school history a bit more. In that moment, embarrassed now that the blonde boy and his friends began to giggle at her for taking so long, she begged the hat for the blue table and that was what it gave her.

Those things didn't matter anymore. In the midst of this war, it made no difference what house a muggleborn had been in. They were all just as guilty for existing.

Scabior muttered under his breath about lazy good-for-nothings. He hated to see his men lying about.

Olive had been laying there on Xavier's bed thinking about many things. She wondered if Potter, Granger, and Weasley had gone back to Hogwarts. Surely, they were on the run and she hoped they weren't skirting under the enemy as she had been doing the past few months. She wondered if Draco Malfoy chose to be a Death Eater or if it was thrust upon him. Olive had fancied him for a while in Hogwarts, but after learning how the wizarding world worked, she knew she never stood a chance. Even if she always did catch him watching her from the corner of his eye as she entertained her few friends by changing her nose or hair.

But, she wondered most if she would avenge her father's death.

"Take guard, I need sleep," Scabior ordered, his dark hair pulled back into a disheveled ponytail, exposing his tired and unshaven face. Olive nodded in her manly guise and stood from the bed, walking past him with a quick step as he took a deep sniff into the air. She closed her eyes.

"Well, what'er you waitin' for?" he demanded, though there was an accusing tone to his voice that sent shivers down her spine. Olive gave a quick shake to her head and left the tent before he decided to get angry. It was too difficult to hold in her feminine screams when he _Crucio'd_.

Scabior was one of the Ministry's best Snatchers due to his unmatchable tracking skills. As an experiment, he'd been released from Azkaban only after Greyback had marred his back with a twisted scratch. He had beyond perfect hearing, cat-like vision, and a keen sense of smell, which followed Olive around like the plague. Scabior thought it was odd that an old man like Booke smelled of honeysuckle. Sometimes, after days of hard work, the smell would disappear. On his off nights, Booke would go out for a while, muttering about some pub, and return with a _crack_ and that wonderful smell.

It reminded him of _her._ It reminded him of the embarrassment she'd caused him. It reminded him that she was the only one to escape.

Olive was glad the men she snatched with were always assuming things. "Never assume -," her father used to say with a laugh, "- or you'll make an _ASS_ out of _U_ and _ME_!"

They all assumed Xavier was heading out to some pub for drinks, but Olive was simply sneaking off to the closest river, pond, ocean, _whatever_ for a well-needed bath. She couldn't help it that she smelled like honeysuckle or that the vile man was attracted to the sickly sweet scent. If he thought Booke was going out at night and sleeping around with some woman that smelled like her, that kept her in the clear. The longer he thought it, the better.

As she walked the perimeter, she began wondering again on that last thought. _Would_ she ever avenge her father's death? She'd had plenty of chances to do it, but they all seemed too risky at the time.

She knew - weeks before any Snatchers turned up in her father's home - that she wouldn't be returning to Hogwarts for her final year of schooling. Olive had informed her father about the struggles of the wizarding war and both agreed that it was safest to not return. Unsure of what action to take, she would sit at her bedroom window day-by-day to watch for unwelcome visitors, despite her father's wishes to run. To ease his mind, she agreed to pack a bag at the beginning of summer, so they were ready at a moment's notice. One night, she'd fallen asleep with the window open and awoke the next morning to men laughing across the street at the park. Five men, all dressed in ratty clothes, sat around a small picnic table. There was another who stood out.

He was sitting alone on one of the swings, kicking himself forward and back every now and then. He wore muted plaid trousers, colorful compared to the drab attire of his mates. While the others sat and talked, he only said the occasional word, his eyes never once leaving Olive's bedroom window. She was alarmed, peeking out from the very edge of the window sill, but they made no sudden movements. If they saw her, they gave no indication. She looked right at the strange man by himself and he seemed to be looking back, though he just kept kicking the swing like nothing was amiss. When he reached into his coat, she froze solid, but he pulled out a cigarette and not his wand. Maybe they weren't even wizards. Maybe she was being too paranoid again.

"But, why would six grown men be sitting in a playground?" she muttered to herself. The plaid man was still staring at her, his friends forgotten, and said something that she couldn't hear as if answering her. A chill snaked up her spine.

After another half hour of crouching around the edge of the window, her legs began to cramp and she ducked back behind the wall to stretch out. They were either weird muggle men or Snatchers. Weird muggle men would pass on eventually, Snatchers would stake out until they had the cover of night. It was only early afternoon - that gave Olive a few hours to figure a way out in case they were Snatchers. She couldn't apparate well enough to take her father with her, but if it came down to that, she would risk splinching.

She couldn't think, her head was beginning to pound against her eyes. Panic was creeping up on her and she drew a long breath. What could she do? If she told her father now, he would panic and flutter around the house grabbing things, drawing attention. In the back of her closet sat her bag, packed with clothing and the essentials. She knew her father kept a bag in the back of his closet also. Outside, she heard the men laugh again and she began rubbing a red spot into her forehead, trying to think. An idea struck her and her eyes shot to her alarm clock - they'd have just over an hour. There was a daycare down the street and the morning session would be ending soon. If they could head out to her dad's car in the confusion of parents and toddlers everywhere, they may be able to get out. Not that the Snatchers wouldn't see them, but they wouldn't dare make a scene on a street full of muggles in broad daylight. The Ministry had grown a bit lax, but not enough for them to risk it.

An hour. Her hands began shaking as she crawled across the floor and snatched her bag from the back of the closet, dumping the contents on the floor. She'd packed months ago and wanted to make sure she had everything she needed now that running was a real possibility. It took her fourteen minutes to rummage through everything, refold, and repack with a few additions. Another three minutes to get the zipper shut, the whole time cursing the fact that the Ministry would know if she did magic. Seventeen minutes in, she was doing good. The shower was calling her name - who knew where they would end up or how long it would be before she had another chance to bathe? A minute debating on a shower. Yes, she would shower, it made her think clearer and would take her less than ten minutes. That would leave just over a half hour to get the food, get her dad, and get out. It made her wary to leave the strange men unattended, but if they were a real threat, she assumed they wouldn't strike mid-day.

 _Assumed._ A mistake her father had always warned her about.

If they were even a real threat, after all. They could still just be muggles. Yes, she'd take a shower and if they were still there when she was done, she would execute her plan.

The soft crooning of Frank Sinatra could be heard from her father's radio downstairs, drifting up the stairs as Olive crossed the hallway to start her shower. Remembering the window was still open, she crossed back and stood now, giving the men a long look before sliding the window shut.

The plaid man's eyesight was much better than her own. He could see from across the street that her earrings were silver hoops, that her burgundy jacket had buttons instead of a zipper, that the corners of her lips pulled down to reveal a small frown line at the edge of her mouth. Olive could only make out that his trousers were plaid, but not the dirt-stained red band around his arm.

When she left the window, he laughed. "She thinks she's runnin', gents," he said, giving one final kick on the swing before standing on the stretch of bare grass beneath.

"Ready then are we, Scabior?" one of his men asked, to which he nodded in return. The five men followed him across the street and stood behind as he knocked gently on the door.

Olive was already in the shower, scrubbing as fast as her hands allowed and counting the seconds under her breath. She didn't hear the knock. She didn't hear the yells from downstairs - the _"Where is she?"_ or the _"Crucio!"_ She didn't hear the funny man's sly steps up the stairs or his hand resting on the warm door. She didn't hear him inhaling the honeysuckle scent that was rolling out into the hall with the steam or see Scabior's eyes roll back as she turned the water off, breathing in the last warm wave of the smell.

Olive only knew that her shower had taken her seven minutes and that she had roughly 35 left to get out of the house.

She grabbed a towel from under the sink and secured it around her light hair, grabbing another to wrap around her body.

Scabior stood outside the door flexing his fingers in anticipation, the excitement of the chase building up. He had heard her counting under her breath and wondered if he should count to see how long it took her to scream. He hoped she struggled, too. He loved it when they struggled. His stomach gave an uneven jump as he thought of her writhing under the ropes, her scent wafting wild around him. Sometimes he laid in bed and wondered why he liked such wicked things or when, exactly, he began enjoying to hurt others. He mused about how sick he had become.

The door made a soft click, but halted, only open a mere inch or two. In those few seconds, Scabior realized his mistake. The music was off downstairs after the scuffle that had taken place in the living room. It didn't matter, this was it, she was his and the honeysuckle was overwhelming him, making it difficult to breathe quiet enough that she wouldn't hear. Upset, he heard her give a small huff in debate on what to do and knowing she was right there behind the door made his heart beat in his throat.

Olive knew she was wasting time. There wasn't a noise in the whole house, but it had to be her paranoia, her dad had probably just turned off the radio. Nearly two minutes passed and she couldn't waste any more time, they had to get out. Taking a deep breath, she pushed the door, squeaking out for her dad and stopping mid-word when she saw the plaid man.

"Hello, love," he purred, inhaling the aroma rolling off her skin.

She tried to dodge past him, screaming for her dad and clutching the towel. Her wand was in her room and if she wanted to stand any chance, she had to reach it. He stepped in front of her quickly, throwing his arms around her so tight that her feet lifted off the ground. Olive struggled against him and he slammed her into the wall, a quick wail leaving her mouth. It was daylight, why were they inside? She still had at least twenty minutes, god, _why did they come inside?_

"Let me _go,_ " she screamed, eyes welling up in tears while she thrashed her legs against him.

She was struggling. His stomach clenched, feeling himself getting aroused. The honeysuckle bounced off the walls with every writhing movement she made, amplified every time she screamed for her dad as it bounced around the invisible vibrations in the air. Caught up in the moment, he grabbed a fistful of her hair - bringing his nose into her damp curls. Olive took the opportunity to knee him between the legs, but she didn't hit hard enough. Scabior still gave a small grunt of pain, but he felt his blood rush with lust. If there was anything he liked better than them struggling, it was when they fought back. She wrenched a hand free and backhanded him with all she had, rolling against his arms and out of his grip before darting toward her room. She needed her wand, it didn't matter now if the Ministry knew.

He let out a growl of frustration, grabbing her ankle and causing Olive to trip, smashing her head off the hallway table. Olive laid still for a moment, the room spinning while blood ran down into her eyes. The most she could do was claw at the floor as he dragged her backwards on her stomach, the towel leaving her behind while he crawled on top of her, pulling a fistful of her hair and forcing her head up at an angle.

"Fight all you want, sweet'art, you're still comin' with me," he said, nuzzling his face into her exposed neck. There was blood in her mouth and the scent of it mixed with the honeysuckle was now among his favorites. "You smell fuckin' delicious," he purred, laughing into the space behind her ear, his nose running up her hairline. "But, you're pathetic now, all the fights gon' outta ya."

Olive never answered. She lay still, facing the floor, trying to keep from throwing up. Bile rose in her throat, a mixture of her head injury and knowing she was going to die soon. One long, pitiful squeal escaped when her face screwed up, thinking of her dad downstairs and what had happened to him.

"Where is your wand?" he asked, his mouth muffled by her hair. He knew she could feel the stiffness rubbing against the back of her thighs and he reveled in the way her face scrunched up in disgust.

When she didn't answer, he slammed her head into the wood floor until she began sobbing again, her face a bloody mess.

_"Where. Is. Your. Wand?"_

"On my bed," she cried, sobbing harder.

"Good _girl,_ " he muttered into her hair, leaning close to chomp his teeth down on her neck, causing pain to erupt down her entire body. Olive let out a cry, screaming out for her dad once more.

When he left her to grab the wand, she slumped against the floor, unable to move her limbs. Everything in her vision was red and she clenched her eyes shut, feeling her body shake violently against the floor as she sobbed. She'd already grown tired, she hoped they killed her quickly.

When he returned, he picked her up bridal-style and fixed the towel around her before he carried her downstairs. Olive's eyes were closed now, but she heard the other men whoop and holler, yelling crude things about her half-naked state. To Scabior's amusement, her beaten father struggled against his restraints with tear-filled eyes at the sight of his daughter limp in his arms. He would not be so amused later, though, when he realized that Olive had slid her wand from his back pocket as he'd carried her down the stairs.

With an unceremonious creaking of springs, Olive was dumped on the couch and let out another moan of pain, careful to keep her wand hidden beneath her and the cushions. Luckily, that arm landed first, so it didn't draw too much attention and the wand was exposed for only a short moment, the men all missing it. She risked opening her eyes and rolled her head toward her dad. His face was cast in red light, like everything else, and the room danced and spun when she tried to lift her head.

All the men shifted with a sudden movement, Scabior grabbing his chest.

"Fuck, someone Taboo'd. Booke and Booke -," he said to two similar men, all enjoyment out of his voice, "- take care of the muggle. Bind the mudblood an' bring her to camp. I want a night with her before we cash'er in," he said with a coy smile aimed at Olive's father, daring him to make one noise of protest. "The rest o'you lot, let's go."

The men all nodded to Scabior.

"Epping Forest in the valley, the usual spot" he said to the Booke twins, him and the other three disappearing with a crack.

The thick boys chortled as they looked down on her nearly exposed body, the blood still running from her head and many bruises forming.

"Go' a li'le rough 'wiv ya, that Scabior?" the shorter one asked. Olive was frightened by the chunk missing from the man's nose, but continued to lay emotionless. She waited for the _Obliviate_ which would erase her and the wizarding world forever from her father's memory.

It never came.

The one with the scar across his lip raised his wand.

_"Avada Kedavra!"_

All the pain left her body in an instant, frantic as the light left her father's eyes. She snapped.

She thought of that night now as she walked the camp perimeter a third time, listening for muggles or muggleborns. Half-bloods, even. She thought about it a lot, even though she sometimes wished she would forget.

She'd killed both brothers with her hidden wand that night. She'd stolen Xavier's clothes and identity and hid their bodies. Stuffing a few small reminders of her father into Xavier's pockets, she alerted the muggle police that she thought her father was dead, gave him a final kiss goodbye, and apparated to the _exact_ spot Scabior had told them to go. It was stupid and she knew it, but she was going to kill him. Every time her body screamed out in pain, warning her to run, she took another step toward that camp, hell-bent on revenge. She faked a deep crying to cover for her own feminine voice and told them lie after lie - how the girl had a wand, how she killed Alexander after he killed her father, how he had barely gotten away. Scabior _Crucio'_ _d_ Xavier for his stupidity and Olive thought she was going to die from the pain. Even though she appeared as unharmed Xavier, her wounds were still very much real under the guise and he tortured her so badly that her head ached for nine days after that night.

That had been months ago now. At first, she said she was waiting until she was fully healed, then until the right moment. Meanwhile, she had to snatch these innocent people with Xavier's body to remain safe. She could feel their pain as they sobbed, but she continued. She continued to turn them in, knowing full and well they'd be killed. It was survival, she would tell herself. It was hunt or be hunted.

While Olive took guard around the camp, Scabior lay in the tent, surrounded in the honeysuckle aroma _._ It seemed to follow him everywhere - taunting him for falling for the girl's act, for letting her steal back her wand and kill one of his men.

He _would_ find her for making him such an embarrassment. He swore to himself that he'd make her cry out for a father who was no longer there.

And he suspected if he wanted to find her, he needed to start with Xavier. The scent clung to him every few days when he would disappear and Scabior was beginning to theorize that she was paying him off. It wasn't a common scent for a woman and he knew it had to be her he was smelling. Maybe she had friends with money. Maybe she was fucking him in exchange for her freedom. Whatever it was, he would find her through Xavier.


	2. Chapter 2

_EDITED: 02/21/2015_

Scabior was _not_ an idiot. He was not dumb, or stupid, or ignorant. He knew he wasn't brilliant by any stretch of the imagination, but he also knew he was brighter than most. Although he hadn't cared much for school, he'd done reasonably well in most of his classes. He'd graduated top thirty of his class, which he reasoned wasn't bad for someone who didn't really try. Now he was 27 years old and had spent the last six years of his life rotting and hardening in Azkaban. There he learned to understand motive. He learned to understand survival.

The point Scabior was trying to make to himself was simple - nothing much got past him these days.

He was one of the Ministry's best Snatchers, earning him higher pay rates than the others. He was thankful for the twisted scar he held on his back, which gave him the talent to do so well on his job. That was wall all part of the deal. Scabior would have killed every muggle in the world if it meant he was free from that prison and the soul suckers. A scratch from Greyback, who he was sure enjoyed the opportunity to harm him, and a lifetime of servitude to the Dark Lord was nothing. Many of the prisoners in Azkaban were from more aristocratic families than his - they couldn't muddy the gene pool with werewolf traits. No, he was chosen because he was a pureblood nobody, a prototype the Ministry had been working on and would soon begin to spread to other low-born pureblood prisoners for release. But, for now, he was alone. And he was fantastic at his job.

Not one of his captives had ever escaped. Not one - until _her._

He remembered the laughter from the other Snatcher groups as they'd heard the news. _Dreagan Scabior,_ arguably the _best_ Snatcher the Ministry had, let a _little_ _mudblood girl_ escape. He was a joke.

Scabior _hated_ the girl.

He would lay awake at night in his demented fantasies, his breathing growing heavy as he thought of choking and violating her. She would scream and punch, in his thoughts, cry and bleed, until the last breath left her body. Maybe then her scent would finally vanish from his mind.

But, as Scabior had told himself countless times, he was _not_ simple. She had been skirting around, taunting him. He could smell her _everywhere_ and he knew this wasn't some sensory hallucination. He'd spent too many years in Azkaban imagining he was smelling a hot rump roast to be deceived by such things. Olive Westin was near. She was _always_ near.

Honeysuckle was not a common scent for a woman. Most of them smelled like lavender, or roses, or bubble gum. Never honeysuckle - he'd only ever smelled it on Olive before. Now, ever since the night Olive escaped, Booke walked around trailing the aroma wherever he went. He had debated with himself for days on end whether it was actually possible for another woman to claim such a unique and strong scent. Surely not. It had to be her - he knew it had to be her.

Scabior had been watching him closely, pretending he believed Booke was having an affair with some woman at the pub. But, he _knew._ He _knew_ it was the girl.

When he got to the bottom of this, he'd kill Booke. No questions asked. If the man had played one tiny part in the escape of Olive, he would kill Booke for embarrassing him. Anyone who got in his way, he killed. And when he got his hands on Olive, oh, it would be a fun few days. Maybe not so much for her.

He was going to strip her of every last thing she had left. He would take her dignity, he would take her pride, and he would take her self-worth. Olive Westin would be _nothing_ after he was done with her. A corpse.

Booke's bag laid there, propped against the edge of the bed, just begging to be gone through. Scabior had sent the traitor out to check the far perimeter, pretending he'd heard footsteps out beyond the trees. Last night, while he laid in bed and imagined choking the life out of the stupid little mudblood, he decided he needed to go forth with his little investigation. A few weeks after Olive's escape, he'd rearranged the sleeping arrangements after claiming Gantley snored too much, so that he and Booke were tent mates now. Though it was months ago, he wouldn't soon forget how Booke had fidgeted, a small look of terror crossing those beady blue eyes and giving him away. From then on, Scabior had watched the traitor like a hawk. And now was the time to finally act.

In the distance, he could hear the man's heavy footfall and knew, as long as he kept his hearing trained on Booke, his tent mate would never know the difference. It took him two long strides to cross the room and pluck up the bag, unclasping the top to riffle through and see if there was anything suspicious. Before it was even all the way open, the canvas backpack exploded with the aroma of honeysuckle, the scent erupting in the tent, clinging to everything within reach.

_Undetectable anti-stench charm._

He vaguely remembered the man muttering something into his bag one night, wand in hand, but in the confusion of waking abruptly from a nightmare, he thought he may have imagined it. Apparently not.

Scabior clenched his teeth together with a new fury, dumping the bag's contents on to the bed with a violent shake.

At first, there was nothing unusual. A few of Booke's shirts, an extra pair of trousers, a bar of soap. Under that was his Snatcher I.D. card, written out on thick cardstock parchment in a rich purple quill. It bore a few important signatures, his identification number, and a picture of Booke which took turns glaring and smiling menacingly. Scabior tossed it to the side and swatted another shirt out of the way, narrowing his eyes at what was beneath. A muggle book. Some sort of children's book about fairytales. It was Olive's no doubt, the scent was radiating from it, laced on each page. But, why? Why would Booke have this? It just didn't make sense. With a furrowed brow, he flicked the cover open with his finger. Inside, in a sloppy hand, was written:

_Little kitten, I'm sorry about the party. Daddy had to go for work and you know I can't take you out often. I hope this makes up for it. When I get home tonight, I'll read you every story in here until the sun comes up. I love you. - Daddy_

As if that weren't enough validation, when he tossed aside the red armband he heard a light clang, as if two pieces of metal had met each other. There, reflecting the dim light, were the pair of silver hoop earrings she'd worn that day in her bedroom before they attacked.

But, _why?_ Scabior hadn't been sure what he would find - he suspected some half-scrawled note with a meeting place and time, sure she was paying him off one way or another. But, why would he have these things - the book, the earrings. After further inspection, he found a picture of the girl's father tucked into the middle of the book. _Why?_

He'd lost his hearing on the man in his rage and shot up when he heard Booke's footsteps among the other Snatcher's carrying on outside. He had a way of walking like he was uncomfortable, like he wasn't sure footed. Scabior stuffed the bag full just in time, barely able to clasp it shut again and toss it down in the floor before the bulky man entered the tent. "Nothin'?" Scabior asked, knowing there was never anyone else out in the forest to begin with.

Booke just shook his head. Another thing that irked Scabior. Ever since his brother's death, he'd hardly spoken. Before, you couldn't get him to shut the bloody hell up. There were many nights when Scabior reasoned Xavier may have played a part in Alexander's death. To the mudbloods and halfies they chased down, they were a menacing duo, but there was little love between the twins. Was it grief that kept him quiet? Or was it guilt?

"You goin' to sneak off to some pub again, Booke?" he asked, reclining now on his bed. Nothing was amiss, it was crucial that Booke thought that. Inside, though, Scabior's mind was reeling. He would catch them unaware, whatever they were doing, snatch her up before she had a chance to scream, kill the old man, and be done with it. Maybe then her taunting would end.

Booke looked up from his feet, a questioning furrow in his brow.

"Go ahead. I'll keep the watch while you go have your fun, you ol' dog," he added with a wink. Everyone teased Booke about sneaking off already. Nothing was amiss.

Olive nodded with Xavier's face. Scabior _never_ just _offered_ them free time like that and she wasn't about to ignore it. It had been at least a week since she'd bathed and the grease in her hair was beginning to make her head itch. And Scabior was also prone to violent mood swings, she'd learned. If he was happy enough to take her patrol now, someone would be paying for it within the hour. Best to get out now while she had the chance.

Olive grabbed her bag, a genuine smile on her face, and exited the tent, heading for the small lake she'd stumbled upon earlier when he'd sent her out after the footsteps. It wasn't her fault that she didn't realize she was being followed - Scabior was well-trained in his craft. His steps were silent as death while he kept a good fifty yards behind her.

When she reached the edge of the lake and removed Xavier's clothes, Scabior's view was temporarily obstructed by a thicket of tall, overgrown briars. As he came around to fully view the lake, there was nothing but clothing laying near the water, but bubbles began to surface as someone neared the top. Olive had grown used to cold baths and found the easiest way was to just take a deep breath and plunge.

Scabior caught her scent before he saw her.

The honeysuckle smell hit him so hard and unexpectedly that his body let out a wild shiver. He eyed the edges of the lake, but his sight locked on the emerging golden head.

_There she was._

There she was _right in front of him._

His mind flashed to his hands tightly crushing her throat as he plunged in and out of her.

Scabior drew a shuddering breath as she raised her arms to work the bar of soap through her hair, her breast peeking at him from just above the water. She was just so _vulnerable._ This girl that had caused him so much trouble, so much embarrassment - how could she be so stupid? How could he have let such a dim-wit outsmart him? He could easily take her now if he wanted. This was _too_ easy. That thought sobered him

Where was Booke? He turned in pure anger, looking for the man among the trees. Was this a trap? Were they in on it? Olive thought she'd heard a twig snap in the woods, looking out around her. She held still for a moment, searching for someone spying on her, but found no one. Still, she scrubbed a little faster this time, trying to work the dirt from her skin. It reminded her of the last time she'd bathed in a hurry and her father was killed for it. They should have just gotten out when they had the chance.

_'Stop,'_ she thought. Those were things she didn't want to remember.

It had been summer when that happened and snow dusted the ground now. It seemed years had passed since it happened, but it had been a mere few months. That night was so murky to her and she often pushed it from her mind. Now Olive just let her rage and fear drive her, leaving the details of that night in the dark recesses of her mind. She would not remember. She didn't want to. Olive wanted to forget everything except her drive to murder Scabior.

Scabior stood still as stone, watching her bathe. Where the fuck was Booke? He'd come this way. He'd come this way to meet her. Why was she in the lake? In the cold, no less. Now Scabior's mind was reeling, thinking she must have been near all along. Maybe she'd been camping nearby and Booke was taking her supplies. Scabior frowned. None of the pieces were fitting. Again, his eyes darted around the lake and surrounding trees. _Nothing._

A splash brought his attention back to the water. He further hid his body behind the trunk of the tree, peeking out enough to keep his eyes trained on her. And then it happened.

Her skin began to bubble and his eyes widened as he watched her face morph and expand, taking the form of Xavier.

"That fucking _bitch,_ " he spat under his breath.

That _fucking_ cunt. No _wonder_ he smelled her everywhere! Booke wasn't _meeting_ her! He _was_ her! What a fucking _sneaky_ whore!

With one last look, he snaked toward camp, hatred coursing through him. She may have tricked him for a few months, but he would take care of this _tonight._

When he reached camp with clenched fists, the men gave him a wary look and jumped at the order to pack up camp and meet him near a cave in Scotland in two hours. Within minutes they were gone, leaving only Scabior and Olive's tent. Scabior sat by the tent's entrance and waited, his stomach beginning to churn from the build of excitement. Booke stumbled from the brush a while later with a confused look upon his face.

"They're meetin' up in Scotland," Scabior lied, already having come up with the story, "Someone saw Potter."

Olive nodded, soundless as ever. Potter was big money. Big enough money to live out the rest of your days in comfort. Of course they all hopped on the chance.

Scabior gave her an expectant look and she ducked her head, hurrying inside the tent. She should have known he wanted to join in the hunt. Though, with her eyes trained on the ground, she missed the silver hoop earring that garnished his left ear.

And she never heard him stand, pointing his wand at the flap of the tent.


	3. Chapter 3

_EDITED: 02/21/2015_

The week before Olive started at Hogwarts, Dumbledore sent for a woman called Tonks to meet with her. He'd informed Olive that this woman was a metamorphmagus as well and that it might be wise to learn how to better control her ability. Even in her young age, Olive was a bitter person - she thought the entire thing was rubbish. How could someone like Olive, who'd spent her entire _life_ controlling her appearance, need the help of a woman like her who had the freedom of growing up in the wizarding world?

The woman's advice - until she walked into that tent, unaware of what was about to unfold - held very little importance in Olive's life. She'd taught her how to keep her hair from becoming red when she was angry and how to keep her skin from turning grey if she were sad. That was about the full-extent of the usefulness from her lessons. Tonks had explained to her that she couldn't teach her how to stop the spell that would ruin a metamorphmagus' disguise because the only way to block it _was_ to block it.

And Olive had never been quick enough to block or disarm an opponent when she was in Dueling Club.

Tonks had urged Olive to remember the spell, that way she would know what to expect. She also told her it would be wise to be prepared to block and to watch for people who began acting suspicious of her disguise. "This spell is not your friend," Tonks had told her. "Depending on your situation, it might as well be an _Avada._ "

Olive figured the woman only stressed this so much because she was a relatively new Auror and her life depended on how well she could hide her own face. Which, it seemed, was about the only thing Tonks had going for her, as she was the clumsiest person Olive had ever met. On her first visit to Olive's house, she'd managed to take out two tables, three lamps, and a portrait off the wall. Olive had no desire to become an Auror, or even work for the Ministry, so she never had any use in these words of caution. If she would ever find herself in a situation where she was hiding for some reason, she would simply watch - as she'd been told - to see if anyone found her out of place. She would have her wand ready to ensure she had time to block. But, Scabior didn't give her the chance.

She'd laid her bag down on the bed, still disguised in Xavier Booke's large body. Olive had started to leave the tent to help Scabior break down camp, but as she pulled back the tent's entrance -

_"Expelliarmus!"_

\- her wand flew from her hand.

_"Aperio!"_

Before Olive could even register what was happening, she could feel her face distorting as she shrank a good foot beneath Scabior's pointed wand. Heartbeats thrummed in her throat, her eyes wide as she looked up at him, unsettled by the realization that he was much larger than she. Booke's body had given her more even footing, made her forget how he'd towered over her that day he'd come to steal her. Now she felt like a little girl next to a giant and fear held her firmly in place.

A gasp of breath escaped as her changing body stopped, content on Olive's true identity. Her breathing escalated to small huffs as she panicked, realizing what had just happened. _Aperio,_ the spell Tonks had tried to beat into her head, was a counter-transfiguration charm cast to uncover a metamorphmagus' identity and hold them in their true form for an hour.

" _There_ she _is_ _,"_ Scabior breathed dangerously, grin creeping over his face as he advanced on the girl, "Miss Olive has come out to play."

Olive stepped back with every stride he took, keeping her eyes focused on the tip of his wand. _How? How did he know?_ This was impossible. Her heart was hammering so loud he could hear it, smell the honeysuckle bouncing off of her as she retreated, hands shaking and eyes wide. Scabior took another step toward her, but her stomach clenched with dread as she felt the table behind nudge her thighs. He took another two steps, closing the gap, and lowered his wand, pressing his body up against hers while she did nothing but look on in horror, still processing what had happened. Scabior pressed harder against her, in hopes that her scent to cling to his clothing, so he might have something as a crude reminder for a few days. He felt her shudder and looked to see her eyes filled with tears of shock.

"Poor _baby,_ " he mocked, grinning into her hair. His hand found her cheek, so he might wipe the tears with his thumb, but she jerked her head to the side, her face settling on pride. At least she tried to jerk her head away, but Scabior grabbed her chin between his calloused fingers, nails digging into her cheeks as he forced her to look at him. He pressed her into the table so hard that she lifted onto it as he forced his way between her knees.

Olive set her jaw, determined not to make a noise as he nuzzled his face in her hair, still holding her chin forward.

"What gave me away?" she said through clenched teeth, knowing conversation would prolong this, giving her more time to figure out an escape. She knew that she was going to have to deal with this for right now until she could get to her wand - that it was what she deserved for letting him trick her. His free hand reached around her head, taking a handful of hair from the nape of her neck and forcing her head back at an odd angle.

"Don't speak n'less spoken to, love," he murmured, releasing her chin and placing his hand on her thigh. "Where's Alexander Booke?" he continued, running his hand higher up her leg as he nuzzled his face in her neck, savoring the scent.

Olive took a shuddering breath. _'Keep calm. Keep calm. Hold still.'_

"Dead," she strained to say, attempting to keep her voice even. Olive knew if she would hold still and keep calm, he would lose interest. Or, it would at least buy her more time. She'd seen him interrogate and torture enough muggleborn women to know how he worked. Her mind was going into overload, trying to think of an escape. All she needed was her wand. This was life or death - she could live without the few things she'd brought from her home, although it pained her to think of leaving them. But, if she couldn't apparate, she was as good as dead. She needed her wand - she needed the _fuck_ out of there before he worked himself into a frenzy. And she didn't see herself lasting long in the woods if she had to physically _run_ into unfamiliar land from someone who did it for a living.

He combed his fingers through her hair, releasing his uncomfortable hold on her before taking a tighter fistful, jerking her head down even farther, her neck exposed in a dangerous and vulnerable way.

"And Xavier Booke?"

The hand on her thigh slid up to her waist, his rough palm pressing under Xavier's shirt, which hung off of her.

Olive swallowed, a think knot resting in her throat.

"Dead."

His fingers slid up her back, each dragging a new level of dread into Olive. He was going slower with her than he did the others. He would tear them apart, body and soul, for the entire group of Snatchers to see. She was desensitized after a while - it became easier to fake laughs and jeers while she watched. But she knew, from watching it happen over and over, that the more you cried, or struggled, or fought, the faster he became excited and the quicker you became dead. She had to keep him at bay - she needed time to reach her wand.

"S'no good, Olive," he said in a sing-song tone, becoming frustrated with her lack of reaction. His hand snaked back around to her side, working its way up her chest. He knew she was doing this on purpose. If that's how she wanted to play, he'd go along. But, he would get the reaction he craved one way or another. His fingers lightly ran up and over her nipple, causing it to perk up. Olive flinched and turned her head away with eyes clenched shut.

That flinch brought a flash of screaming and begging to Scabior's eyes, of blood and tears and honeysuckle everywhere. Thoughts were not enough for him, he needed the real thing.

"Did they at least have time to put that filthy muggle you call a father in his rightful place?"

A long huff of breath left her as turned to face him with a look of pure hatred. " _Shut. Your. Mouth_ ," she said, mouth clenched so tight her jaw ached.

Weak spot. Now he only had to push her a bit farther. "What would _daddy_ think now, _little kitten?_ Hrm? Methinks he would'n be too proud of his little girl runnin' 'round wiv' my lot. Methinks he would be pretty disappointed in the things you done."

The shove caught him off-guard, but she had barely weaseled out to his left before he caught hold of her again, slamming her back into the oak table, plates from their lunch shattering as they fell. Her wand must be on his left, then. That was the real secret to snatching - it wasn't the enhanced small, excellent hearing, precise vision - it was _them._ Most of them didn't realize that they gave themselves away.

Olive's mind was reeling. If she could push past Scabior – _unlikely_ \- and get to her wand before he got to her - _even more unlikely_ \- then she could apparate to safety. It was that or stay here at his mercy, which went one of two ways. One, he would have his way with her and turn her into the Ministry when he was finished, where she would have her wand snapped and end up dead. Or he would just have his way with her and kill her himself. If she gave up, she was dead either way.

Olive shoved him again, harder this time, a grunt of fury leaving her before she dove to his left, seeing an opening. Scabior reacted instantly, grabbing the girl and flinging her back into the table. The quick movement had caused her scent to attack his senses.

"Ah, come _on,_ " he said with an excited gleam in his eye, "I think we can try a little better than _that._ "

Olive tried to dart around him, but he caught her again. Once more, she tried, while the chances of her escape became bleak. He was just too quick. He threw her back into the table, harder this time, the rest of the plates tumbling. Her adrenaline was pumping so hard that she barely felt it.

"That's _it?_ That's _all_ you've got?" Scabior further taunted. Olive's pride finally faded. Her face scrunched up as she began to cry, knowing this was it, she had failed, she was going to die. Scabior clenched his fists as his arousal grew with her tears. He had her where he wanted her, but he wanted more. He wanted screaming.

"Your father deserves to rot."

One last burst of energy seemed to have found her, fueled by fury, and she ran toward her wand once more. Scabior let her pass, wanting to see the glimmer of hope in her eyes, but his arms wrapped around her waist as she closed in on the wand. He brought her close to him, back to his chest, and lifted her up from the ground with a tight grip, her legs thrashing violent kicks in resistance. He stumbled over to her bed and dumped her there, pinning her neck down with his forearm.

"You're the one who deserves to rot," she wheezed, trying to pry his arm away from her throat. "You're the monster."

Olive didn't have time to register what was happening. Scabior drew back his arm, fist colliding like a block of cement with her mouth. Her vision jumped and blurred as her head turned with the sheer force of the punch and she could see little bits of blood swimming past her face and staining the sheets. She saw his other fist closing in, but felt too drowsy to react as her head was forced the other way, nose exploding with blood.

Olive thought nothing after this. Her body was limp, rock bottom in unconsciousness. A chill ran down Scabior's spine as he realized he'd never had his way with an unconscious woman before. It made him even more excited that he'd been the one to knock her out.

The scent of blood and honeysuckle together was too much for him and he wasn't going to restrain himself anymore. He took the dagger from his boot and, in one quick motion, sliced the oversized shirt she wore. Her breathing had become as slow and steady as the blood running down her face. He knew when she came back to him, she'd not have it in her to fight. He ran his hands over her breasts, cupping them as she laid motionless.

He slid her trousers down, an easy task as they were several sizes too large. Once he had her naked, he sat back, trying to memorize every detail. He would keep her for a few days, but he wanted this moment etched into his brain. After a few minutes, he found himself unable to handle the blood and honeysuckle much longer. He spread her legs graphically, fingers sliding inside. Blood was on everything. It painted her face, stained the sheets, and even coated his fingers when he pulled them out of her. A dark smile crossed his face. What an _honor_ to be her first and only.

Olive's breathing had become erratic again and he knew she was trying to come out of it. Taking the opportunity while he had it, he unbuttoned his trousers, his fingers once again sliding inside of her as she began to shake her head, brow furrowed. He knew she was almost conscious again when he heard the whimper in the back of her throat and his fingers began to move in and out with a more violent pace.

She tried to open her eyes, but she found only heaviness. Her right eye was throbbing, each heartbeat sending a stab to the swollen mess. When she realized what Scabior was doing, she began to sob, begging.

"Just kill me," she said, in a pitiful tone, unable to even clearly see him with her skewed vision. Olive felt his wand press against her throat, the tip digging into her windpipe. She clenched her eyes shut, no fight left in her tired body, and let him do what he was going to do. Then he was on top on her, their chests pressed together, and he was inside.

It seemed like it lasted days. After a while, she'd stopped crying and just laid there, head turned away, watching the tent flap sway with the outside breeze. Everything hurt. A few times she shuddered when he thrust into her, throwing his whole body down into it, and he would laugh. When her body betrayed her, the spasms tightening around Scabior made him lose himself, and his hand went for her throat in excitement. She could fill the heat of him spill into her, the stickiness between her thighs. Fresh tears had already filled her eyes, knowing this was it, this was the end.

Then she felt it. His wand had rolled across the sheets, wedged now between her arm and the bed.

After he slid in and out a few more times, he stood to button his trousers. He didn't even have a chance for some dark remark before she'd grabbed his wand, rolled off the bed, and disappeared with a thunderous _crack._


	4. Chapter 4

_EDITED: 02/21/2015_

Olive had no concept of time.

She wasn't sure how many hours or days had passed. She thought she remembered it getting dark once - or was it twice? The more she thought about it, the less she could remember.

When she'd first landed, naked, in the freezing woods, she watched the snow around her face melt away into scarlet mush. Olive grew tired after a while and closed her eyes. Some amount of time later, she opened them back up, noticed the sky was growing dark, and drifted back to sleep. She remembered opening her eyes again to the blinding white snow. She remembered closing her eyes. She remembered opening her eyes once more, noticing her left eye didn't quite open all the way.

 _'That's funny,'_ she thought. She closed her eyes again.

Olive was dying. Exposure, blood loss, it didn't matter. She was dying.

The amount of strain it put on her to apparate, with another wizard's wand no less, had drained what little energy she had left and purged more blood than she could spare. Her eyes didn't open again while she laid, half-buried in snow, and welcomed the deep waters surrounding her.

Far away from Olive, in some unknown wood of Scotland, Scabior stared ahead of him, bitterness twisting his mouth down in a scowl.

He was more infuriated now than he'd ever been. That was twice now that she'd tricked him - and the second had been a much more personal blow to his ego. Taking a wizard's wand was like taking his arm and Olive's wand was proving a poor replacement. He'd splinched himself twice trying to apparate with her wand, but refused to ask for a side-along from one of his men and risk them asking questions. For two days now he'd searched for her in secret, telling the men that Xavier was ill and in St. Mungo's. He began to feel, after the fifth location they'd checked, that this simple task was becoming more impossible as they went. Not one trace of her scent had floated through the air and each hour without it was making him more and more angry.

He looked back down to the muggle fairytale book he held in his hands, opening the front cover and reading her father's note for the hundredth time. A dark smile twisted over his features. "I'll find you, _little kitten,_ " he promised to the wind, cracking his neck and readying himself for a new day of Snatching. Someone mentioned loads of mudbloods hiding out in a new forest they hadn't checked yet and, as long as rumor proved true, it would be a wonderful opportunity to blow off some steam.

Back in the unknown forest, Olive thought she was hearing footsteps crunching toward her, then someone yelling. She couldn't tell if it was a man or a woman. Then she sunk back under the surface.

When she woke the next time, she opened her right eye, her left not responding, and saw trees passing under a darkening sky. Or maybe it was getting lighter? She couldn't tell - didn't care. She remembered hearing voices talking back and forth, but she couldn't distinguish individual words. Darkness wrapped around her chest, her neck, clutched around her ankles, pulling her farther under the water. Down and down she went, deeper into the waters, so deep she could barely see the light reflected on the surface. And then - nothing. Olive was gasping for air, sputtering, trying to breathe in the terrifying blackness and finally light flooded her vision. She sucked a long, wheezing breath, clutching her heaving chest, happy to have air. Then, the pain started. It was unimaginable, worse than anything possible, and only after the pain set in did she realize her surroundings were unfamiliar.

She'd only just been floating under the trees - where was she? How had she gotten here so quickly?

"Blimey! She's awake!"

Her eyes snapped to the source of the voice and found a young man standing in front of a toppled chair, as if he'd stood up too quick. Olive wasn't sure why, but she thought she recognized his face. There was a bad feeling in the pit of her stomach when she realized they were under a canvas tent.

What had happened to her? The last thing she clearly remembered was - what was it? Her brain was too foggy and she couldn't think straight. Why was she in pain? Why had she been laying on the ground in the snow? Why had she been flying under the trees? She didn't know the answer to anything.

Another man burst into the room, his dark hair long around his face and wand pointed to her chest. She'd seen him somewhere, too, but she wasn't sure why it was giving her an even worse feeling than the tent.

"What's your name?" he demanded, his words filling the air with caution.

What did he ask? Her name? What was her name? She scrunched her eyes tight for a few seconds and tried to recall. "Olive," she said as if unsure, then gaining confidence, "Olive Westin."

"Hermione was right, then," the first boy said, his red hair falling into his face.

"What is your allegiance?" the second boy asked in an unforgiving tone, wand still drawn.

Allegiance?

"Pardon?"

"Which side are you on?" he asked, "In the war?"

War?

Yes, that sounded right. They were in a war, weren't they? How had she forgotten? What was the name of the evil lord?

It nearly smacked her in the face as things were coming back to her bit-by-bit.

"Not the Dark Lord," she said, something inside of her keeping the wizard's real name from crossing her lips.

 _Taboo._ That was right. Voldemort was Taboo'ed. In the back of her mind, she wondered how she knew that, but the pain throbbing in her head was beginning to make her feel nauseous.

"What is your blood-status?" the dark-haired boy asked next.

"And what does that matter?" a furious voice interrupted, bushy-haired girl entering the room. "You're as bad as them, Harry!"

Olive knew her face more than the others. She strained her mind, but the headache only worsened, accompanied by an ache over her entire face.

"I was just making sure she's not luring us into a trap!"

For some reason, Olive kept picturing the girl next to her in a classroom. Where did she go to school again?

_Hogwarts._

Things were coming back to her a bit quicker than before. The more she thought of it, the surer she was that this girl had sat next to her in Muggle Studies.

"She's a _muggleborn,_ Harry! Honestly! I go out searching for mushrooms and come back to an interrogation!"

Olive seemed to remember the girl smiling over at her in class, them both getting a high score on an exam.

"It could be polyjuice potion!" he yelled back.

"That lasts this long? _Twelve hours,_ Harry?"

Twelve hours? She'd been out for twelve hours? It had only seemed like seconds. The boy went silent, pausing to look at Olive before he stalked out of the room. The red-haired boy followed, shooting the girl an apologetic look. It hit Olive like a ton of bricks.

Granger. Her name was Hermione Granger.

"Olive?" she asked quietly, coming to kneel at the side of the bed. "Are you alright? I'm sorry about Harry. What happened to you?"

Olive was quiet for a moment, but nothing came to her.

"I don't know," she said in reply. As if her body mocked her, she winced as she rose to sit up.

"It doesn't surprise me that you don't remember. You were in quite a state when I found you."

Olive's eyebrows shot together.

"Was I? How so?"

She hoped it might help her remember how she had come to be where she was. Hermione gave her a wary look, unsure of how to answer.

"Well, you were beat to pieces, face down in the snow when I found you. Your nose was broken, but I fixed it while you were asleep, I figured it would be less painful. Your eye has gone down quite a bit, but it was swollen shut when we first got you here. You've got a nasty black eye, though. If I had a mirror, I'd show you. You'd also splinched. I'm surprised you made it, to be honest, the wound was already healing on its own, you'd have to have been there for a few days. I patched up where you splinched the best I could, but it was beyond magical intervention. You're going to have a scar."

Olive swallowed, the room distorting for a moment in front of her eyes. "Where did I splinch?" she asked, grimacing in pain as she lifted her hand. "Let me feel."

Hermione took her by the wrist, as gentle as a breeze, and lifted Olive's fingers to the left side of her neck. Olive had to hold down the bile in her throat. Surely it just felt bigger because she couldn't see it - the marred skin covered a large chunk of her neck, snaking over her jaw and running up her cheek. She would have to change her appearance for the rest of her life to hide the disfigurement.

"Your lip is still pretty swollen, too. I cleaned you up as well as I could," Hermione said, trying to change the attention to something else and dropping Olive's wrist. "And you," Hermione started, pausing to look down at her lap, "You were naked."

Olive's gaze darted to her, eyes wide. That ignited something in her brain.

"Don't worry!" she added hastily, not sure what Olive's expression meant, "I put my jacket over you before I yelled for Ron! I made sure everything was covered. I grabbed your wand, too."

That last bit ran through her mind over and over. She remembered being panicked as she'd apparated. She'd remembered not being sure where she was going. She'd remembered watching her blood stain the snow around and she remembered going numb. But, she didn't remember having her wand. In fact, she was absolutely sure it had been left behind.

"Are you sure? I don't remember having my wand."

She looked at Olive oddly.

"Yes, I'm quite sure. I had to pry it out of your fist, even unconscious you wouldn't let go."

Olive clenched her eyes when Hermione stood and pulled it from her pocket. It was longer than her own - thick, with sharp edges cut deep into the dark wood. It looked _cruel._

She remembered everything.

Her father.

_Him._

The rape.

_Everything._

Somewhere, her wand was being held captive. A sick feeling coated her stomach, wondering if he'd grown frustrated and snapped it in two yet. Olive looked down at his wand in horror. He was _everywhere._ Even now, as she sat in the seemingly safe tent with Granger, Potter, and Weasley.

Potter?

"Olive?"

She gave the bushy-haired girl a quick glance, then tore her eyes back to the wretched wand.

"It's nothing. I've just started...remembering things."

Hermione nodded and allowed silence to stretch between the girls.

Olive's mind was reeling, cogs spinning as fast as her pounding head would allow. She wasn't sure of many things. She had no idea where Scabior was. She had no idea where _she_ was. Or how much time had passed since _then._

But, she knew one thing for sure.

She had to get the _fuck_ out of there.

No offense meant toward them, but being with Potter was a death sentence. They would attract the Death Eaters like flies to honey. She had to leave - she had to get out of there.

"I - uh...I don't want to intrude," Olive began, attempting to be civil. "I'll just -"

"Nonsense," Hermione interrupted with a smart tone. "You're still weak. We're... _I'm_ not going to let you back out for whoever to find you. At least not until you're completely healed."

Olive stood from the bed, wand and legs shaking in equal amounts. Someone, Hermione she hoped, had changed her into a pair of men's pajama bottoms and a baggy flannel shirt. "No, I - I don't think it's right," she said, walking toward the common area of the tent, where the boys sat and eyed her with distrust. "I don't really feel welcome."

Hermione huffed at Harry, grabbing Olive by the arm and leading her outside. Olive never knew Hermione well and she knew her the best of the three, which made the situation awkward. She'd sat next to her during third-year Muggle Studies, them both being top of class, and that was the extent of their interactions.

"You don't have to leave," Hermione whispered under her breath, leading them to a rather large tree where the girls both sat, though Olive's body was aching in protest. "It's just, Harry's had the -," she stopped herself, her hand resting on her neck. She quickly put it down. "Harry's been in a sour mood."

"I -er," Olive started to say, trying to think of an excuse to leave, "Hermione, I'm being tracked. I don't think it's the best idea that I stay."

Well, it wasn't a _lie._ Just another reason Olive shouldn't stay. She was as much danger to them as they were to her - and she didn't want to tell her that she was terrified to be around Harry. How could she offend someone that at least had the humanity, in times like these, to take her in?

"Olive," Hermione started, "What happened? Was it Snatchers?"

Olive noticed the sudden somberness in Hermione's face. She ducked her head and became absorbed in picking at the fraying material of the pajama bottoms while the fuzzy-haired girl eyed her down.

"I know you don't know me well. And I know you never talked much at all in school, but you can talk to me if you want," Hermione continued.

Olive sighed, balling the fuzzy fabric up under her fingers. There was something about telling someone these things that seemed appealing. It made her feel she wasn't all alone after all.

"Uhm," she began, uncertain where to start, "Well, they showed up a few weeks after the Ministry fell. They had decided to go for the muggleborns first, but I'm sure you already know that."

Olive's eyes stayed on the thread between her fingers, not seeing Hermione shake her head.

"No," Hermione said, realizing Olive didn't see her, "We've been on the run since the night the Ministry fell."

Olive nodded, scorning herself for not doing the same. Maybe then her father would still be alive - maybe she should have been braver. Left home. He might still be sitting in his wing-back chair and listening to Frank Sinatra. But she couldn't change the past, she had only the present. And the present was filled with darkness.

Back in Scotland, Scabior closed the book as one of his men walked near.

"Camp's packed, sir. You almost ready?"

Scabior nodded.

"Where to, then?" the man asked his leader. Scabior sighed, absent-mindedly rubbing his thumb over the book cover.

"There's a bit'a forest that had some sightings. Get everyone together because I'm only givin' instructions once."

The man nodded and began rounding up the Snatchers. Scabior sighed, his breath puffing out it a white cloud. Time to kill something.

While Scabior was telling his men where to go, Hermione was looking at Olive in horror as she told of her father being killed before her eyes.

"So, then what did you do?"

Olive stopped picking at her trousers and turned her attention instead to scraping at a hang-nail.

"Well, I...I killed them. The two that were still there. And I stole one of their identities. Caught up with the others."

Hermione was dead quiet as she talked, but nodded, impressed the girl had it in her, though it was a shame it had come to homicide. She knew Olive would always be affected by taking another life.

"And I waited. And waited. But, the perfect time never came. He figured me out before I had a chance and then... _this_ happened."

Olive pointed to her face for emphasis and was quite glad that Hermione hadn't noticed the gaping hole in her story - that she'd been Snatching muggleborns, half-bloods, and blood-traitors while disguised. Or maybe she had noticed and didn't say. Or even thought she was secretly helping the muggleborns. Either way, she didn't say a word and for that, Olive was thankful.

"What did they do?" Hermione breathed, captivated by her story of escape. She'd never known this quiet girl from school could be such a strong survivor.

"Well, I'm not sure if everyone knows who I am or not. I know he does. By he, I mean our unit leader. He, uhm...he. He tricked me into cornering myself in our tent. Disarmed me. _Aperio'_ d me." She glanced at Hermione, but wasn't surprised to see that she understood the spell. It wasn't exactly common knowledge, but she _was_ very bright for her age. "Then, he, uhm. He. Well, he knocked me out. And he - well. You found me with no clothes, so..."

She glanced at Hermione, but didn't need to see the repulsed look on her face to know she was clever enough to understand what she was trying to say.

"He's still out there and I've got his wand. You don't know him, I can tell you right now he's hell-bent on finding me and making me pay. I shouldn't be here. I'm putting you at a higher risk."

Hermione nodded, her eyes telling Olive she was not quite there.

"Olive," she started, as if everything depended on it, "What's his name? Your unit leader? So, I know. I'll know who he is if we ever come across some Snatchers."

Olive stopped picking at her hang-nail and looked Hermione dead in the eye.

" _Scabior._ Dreagan _Scabior._ And if you ever come across him, you get out. Away. Don't stay for your friends. I've seen...terrible things. I can't even count how many women I've seen him force himself on to. He rapes them, Hermione. He rapes them in front of our entire unit, while they laugh and jeer. And when they stop struggling, or stop fighting back, he kills them. I watched him finish with a dead body once. A dead _girl._ She wasn't even sixteen yet."

Hermione gave a quick nod, averting her gaze, and Olive felt an instant rush of remorse. She knew she shouldn't have worried her like that, even if it was true. She also realized that Hermione must want to talk too - she knew what it felt like to be the only girl among men for months at a time. It was rather lonely after the first few weeks. Olive had been so caught up in finally getting some things off her chest that she hadn't realized they hadn't once spoken about Hermione's life. Normally, Olive wouldn't care, she never bothered with making many friends, but she was cherishing these few minutes of girl-talk she had. They might be her last.

Scabior closed his eyes and took a deep breath as his men set up camp. It was faint, but there was the slightest trace dancing through the air. _Honeysuckle._

The girls chatted quietly for a while, growing more and more comfortable with each other. Hermione was telling her how she'd erased herself from her parent's memory - how they didn't even know she existed. Olive thought this was even worse than losing a parent. At least _she_ could pretend her father was looking over her - guiding her, even. She didn't think she could handle how isolated Hermione must have felt.

"I just...I would do anything in the world to go see them. Just to watch them from outside the window. Just to make sure they're okay."

Olive felt miserable for her. She knew she'd be the same way if her father was alive and she was on the run - which is why he was dead, anyway. She wasn't strong enough to leave as Hermione had done. She'd condemned him. Hermione was the bravest person Olive had ever met.

"So, why don't you go? You'll feel better," Olive asked. A small smile perched on Hermione's lips.

"I've talked about it, but they don't think it's such a good idea," she replied, nudging her head toward the tent.

"Rubbish. Just go. They don't have to know if you leave," Olive said, the smile broadening on her face bruised face.

"It's just the three of us. They'll notice if I'm gone."

"No, they won't."

Hermione began to protest, but Olive was too busy concentrating on the girl's face. She started with her nose, crafting her own into a smaller, sharper shape. Then, her eyes - she could feel her skin tightening as they became smaller, flooding with the muddy color. Hermione watched in awe as the girl in front of her transformed to her twin.

"Just go get a quick peek. I'll stay out here and act like I'm reading or something."

Hermione sat, dumbfounded.

"I-I. This isn't right. _Why?_ "

Olive didn't know.

She was just suddenly consumed with making sure Hermione saw her parents. She just... _had_ to.

"I can't imagine what it feels like, Hermione. To not know if they were alright or not. Just do it. _Please._ I'm in your debt."

Hermione was quiet for a moment, but Olive knew she was seriously considering.

"Go on. Quickly. Trade me clothes. Just go take a peek and be back in ten minutes. They'll never notice."

Still, she hesitated.

"I promise you. This is not a trick. You can take the wand with you if you want. I'll be useless against two grown boys who are armed with wands without one myself."

Hermione looked over her shoulder toward the tent before reaching into a tiny, beaded bag and pulling out a pair of jeans. Olive watched in pure amazement.

"How'd you do that?"

She looked up to Olive before catching on.

"Undetectable Extension Charm."

Olive gave a small laugh. Absolutely brilliant.

"Do you - do you think you can find a spare bag? And do that for me? I need to go back to my house for more things and it would help to have more than one change of clothes. I won't have to stop as often for wash."

Hermione nodded and Olive hastily changed into the jeans, glad to get the loose pajama bottoms off. Hermione turned the other way out of respect for Olive, since she had nothing underneath her borrowed clothes.

"I'm going to tell them I'm seeing you off," Hermione told her, headed toward the tent. While she was gone, Olive felt an even larger pang of sympathy for the girl when she ran a hand through her hair, feeling how frizzy it was.

Hermione returned with a quick step and held out her hand to Olive, who placed Scabior's wand in her grip. "Just a precaution," Hermione said apologetically.

"No, I understand. I'd do the same. Just _please_ make sure I get it back."

She smiled, nodded, and with a crack was gone. Not two seconds later, Olive heard a twig snap behind her. She spun wildly and her heart stopped, seeing two men from her unit struggle with an unconscious body. The men walked right past her and Olive realized there must be protective enchantments around the tent and she was standing right near the barrier. They continued as if they hadn't even noticed her, Scabior slowly slinking behind _supervising_. His head turned from side-to-side, eyes wild, and Olive stiffened.

"What's that?" Scabior asked, knowing it was her. But, where _was_ she? He eyed each direction, but there was nothing. It was so strong, she had to be right _there._

"What?" one of the men asked.

"That - that _smell._ "

Olive stood dead still and held her breath. Scabior didn't understand - she should be _right_ there.

"I don' smell nuffin'," the same man roughly replied, the sound warped from the other side of the barrier.

Olive closed her eyes and blocked them out – trying to remain calm. When she opened her eyes, they weren't there. As if she'd imagined it.

Harry stood behind Olive, thinking it was Hermione.

"Snatchers. See what sort of lot that Olive brings about?"

It _was_ real. They'd stood face-to-face, not a foot between them. Her scent...he'd _known_ it was her.

"He smelled it," she said to herself, biting the inside of her cheek as she remembered Harry thought she was Hermione. She thought quickly on her feet. Just as Harry was about to ask her what they smelled, Olive added, "My perfume."

She didn't want to give herself or Hermione away. But, she knew one thing - Hermione needed to hurry. She had to get out of there _now._ Or else they all might be captured.


	5. Chapter 5

Olive leaned back against the tree, growing anxious. There was no way to tell the time, but she knew it had been at least a half hour since she'd sent Harry into the tent so she could keep watch for Scabior in peace. Maybe an hour had passed since she'd seen the Snatchers pass by, but her heart still stammered while she kept her eyes on the surrounding areas. They hadn't gone far in that hour - somewhere out there she could hear them still. She felt sick. A deep, gut-wrenching scream had pierced the air just moments ago as rich laughter she knew too well echoed from the distance. Weasley had come out once, eyes in the distance toward the screams, but went back inside with a dark look. There wasn't anything they could do without revealing themselves.

 _'Please hurry,'_ she thought, trying to block out the screams. She was in a considerable amount of pain, her face and head throbbing, and she wanted nothing more than to remove herself from at least a hundred mile range from both Potter and Scabior.

As if her silent prayer was answered, a small crack was heard and Hermione appeared a few feet from her. They stood still for a few moments, Hermione making sure the boys weren't stirring in the tent to the noise and Olive eying the horizon in fear that the Snatchers had heard. She gave Olive an apologetic look, taking quiet steps toward her and pulling a canvas backpack from her distinctly smaller handbag.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I'd sent them off to Australia before I left them last and it was a pain tracking them down. They're fine, though. Touring Sydney for the day. I managed to get on the same bus as them and get a seat behind them. It was nice to just hear them talk to each other."

Olive nodded, trying to muster a grin, but it was hard to concentrate when she knew the screaming and laughing had come to an abrupt stop. Hermione was so busy gushing about her parents that she hadn't noticed the sounds in the first place.

Scabior had risen a silent hand to his men, signaling to stop. His head cocked to the side and he drew a deep breath, head darting to his right, following his senses. He knew he'd caught her scent earlier, he _knew_ it. The noises were faint and garbled, but they were there. He'd heard someone apparate, then the ghosts of whispers carrying through the air. And one of them was _her._ Even the hushed words carried a trace of honeysuckle.

"Take 'im to the Ministry," he said, gazing out toward the direction of the muffled sound. "I think we may 'ave more lurking about. Go get your gold an' grab dinner - meet back at camp in the morning."

The men all nodded, some smiling. It wasn't often Scabior gave up his share of the gold and it was even less often he gave them a night off. The captured man let out another groan, but it was only half-heard, the rest of it disappearing in the loud series of cracks that left Scabior standing alone.

Hermione had told Olive she could keep the clothes she'd woken in and she stuffed them in the new bag, glad to have at least one change of clothes, even if they were ill-fitting. Olive let out a long breath, hearing the popping noises nearby. Gone, thank Merlin, they were gone. Hermione spun to look over the snow covered ground around the camp, danger and horror filling her eyes. "They're leaving," Olive said, "Already been through here. It was _him._ "

A rigid expression crossed Hermione's face, but silence passed between them, neither one at fault for not hearing the soundless footsteps approaching. "I have to go, Hermione," she said. "He knew I was here. I can't be here any longer and you lot need to leave, too."

The words felt thick and unpleasant in Olive's mouth. She had half-expected Hermione to insist she stay until she was better healed, but this changed everything. Not that Olive intended to stay, but there was something in Hermione's eyes that told her she'd gone from being a comrade to a danger and that made her stomach squirm. She had to go, though - she had to go before he second-guessed himself and came back for another look.

Olive fumbled with the things in her bag, pretending to rearrange them, though there was only the pajama bottoms and one of Weasley's flannel shirts. She knew she was stalling, but her mind was stumbling on her parting words. What did you say to someone who had the compassion to take you in? Olive wouldn't have done it. She would have put it down to bad luck and kept going. And she'd listened while Olive told her story, given her clothes, a new bag. Given her companionship, if only for an hour or so.

"Thank you. I - I'm not quite sure what to say. Just...thank you. I hope we see each other again someday," Olive said, each word clumsier than the last. It was unlikely they'd ever meet again, unlikely they would both survive the war. But, it seemed like something you would say to someone in this situation, so she did. A small smile played on Hermione's lips as she nodded in reply. Olive couldn't be sure, but she thought she saw the girl's eyes reflecting a bit more of the bright sky than they normally should.

Olive turned and stepped through the barrier, thinking that an infant leaving a mother's womb was the only thing comparable to the sensation. She gripped Scabior's wand in her tight fist, concentrating on her destination.

Hermione's words bubbled out from what now appeared to Olive as thin air.

"Where will you go?"

Olive's eyes clenched as she envisioned where she needed to be.

"Home," she said, turning on her heel as the ground left her feet.

Scabior watched as she disappeared, apparating with _his_ wand.

He leaned back against a tree, wondering who lay tucked away under the invisible charms not thirty yards in front of him. His mind moved on to other things - he counted down the time. He was giving her a head start.

Olive landed on the plush cream carpet of her living room, bracing herself against the couch as her knees buckled beneath her. She _really_ needed to find a different wand. Just the feeling that ran through her when she held his wand made her feel uneasy - it was dark, primal, twisted energy that Olive couldn't tame. She wanted it far away from her, but it would have to do until she came across another person on the run. She'd get a different wand one way or another, no matter what she had to do for it.

Once she'd steadied herself, she glanced around with unease and was glad to see the living room in pristine condition, the bodies no longer there. The Ministry had taken care of it, then. There would be nothing here - no couch, no pictures, no winged back chair - had the muggle police made it there first. They probably thought her phone call was a prank or else the Ministry altered their memories. The Ministry had stepped in, cleaned up, and left it empty. Mail piled in front of the mail slot in the door and she noted a few disconnect notices.

Olive's heart ached as she saw the corner of a CD case poking out from the cushion of her father's chair and she stood, charging up the stairs. She knew that case, she knew it was Frank Sinatra. _Push it from your mind. Don't remember._

She needed to get her things and leave, she knew she couldn't stay. She walked past the discarded towel in the hallway that had been ripped from her hair all those months ago and realized how very alone she was for the first time. _'Right, that doesn't matter,'_ she thought. _'Get your stuff ready and be out first thing in the morning.'_

Seeing Scabior had confirmed that he was back on the hunt and, though she was certain he'd already checked the house, especially when she stepped into her room and saw it was trashed, she knew he was back out there. If anything, he'd presumed her dead or on the run and left. Seeing him gave her the comfort to stay, for even just one night, in her childhood home. Her own bed would prove quite a comfort and she would have time to say a proper goodbye to the house and everything in it without worrying as much. She eyed the mess in her room, the broken lamp, the pillow feathers scattered beneath her feet. Her dolls, her books, smashed and torn. A sickness tugged in her stomach. Above her bed, burned into the wall, it said, "Run."

Her body froze rigid when the floorboards creaked downstairs. She remained quiet for a moment, not daring to move one muscle.

Nothing. She remembered that her house settled, as her father called it. She felt it was an ominous sign, nonetheless.

Still, the word above her bed sent a chill up her spine and she knew, despite her best wishes, that she needed to grab her things, do a load of wash, grab what food was still good, and get out. A shower had been her downfall last time and she certainly wasn't going to risk it again. No matter where she was in the house, her hearing would be trained on her surroundings and she would be prepared should he happen to check the house again before she left.

She turned toward her bed. A pillow? Yes, she'd need a pillow. Unfortunately, all three of her pillows were slashed, but she found a spare in the hallway closet, stuffing in two towels and a few rags, as well. Her father's door was cracked open and she didn't hesitate to stalk in and grab some of his clothing. Her eyes stayed trained on his closet, not daring to look around at his things and get emotional. There was no time for emotional. A handful of shirts and a pair of trousers were added to the bag. She didn't know if she would have to impersonate another man or not and it was best to be prepared.

She thought the tent and sleeping bags where in his closet, as well, from those camping trips she'd taken with him years ago. She felt around in the dark closet until she felt the thick drawstring bag which held the muggle tent. Olive struggled with fitting the sleeping bag through the backpack's opening at first, but took off toward the bathroom as soon as she was successful. She continued to throw things into the bag, not quite shaking a horrible feeling in the pit of her stomach. Two boxes of unopened soap. _Actual_ shampoo and conditioner. New razors, a toothbrush, toothpaste. It should have seemed like heaven, but she wondered if she was wasting time on cosmetic things.

Olive's hands flew in a wild flurry around her, grabbing this and that, until she'd reached for her hairbrush. Her hand was suspended in the air, fear coursing through her.

There was a wand being pointing into the back of her hair - no time to react before she heard the enchantment.

_"Imperio!"_


	6. Chapter 6

_EDITED: 02/21/2015_

A satisfied grin tugged his unshaven features up in a rare form.

Keeping his wand pointed at her head, he spoke out to her and broke the seemingly endless silence. "Turn toward me."

Olive floated among her mind, a cage surrounding her. She heard his commands and fought the urge to obey, banging her fists on the walls shrinking around her brain.

Scabior watched as she twitched in a strange manner, mentally fighting his influence in her head. _"Turn. Toward. Me,"_ he said again with more authority.

Olive struggled against the restraints that burst around her, squeezing her to the point of breathlessness as the cage grew smaller and smaller. The bars were soon pressing against her body, her face, all in her mind. She tried to scream out, but no noise would leave her. She couldn't breathe - she was being suffocated. The ropes immobilized her, wrapping up around her neck and holding her still as she gasped for air. They began to wind around her face, tightening into her skin.

And then it happened.

"Olive," he spoke firmly, growing annoyed, "I told you to _turn around._ "

The ropes pulled so tight that they went through her, as if she was smoke. A deep fog rolled into her mind, tugging her body around as if she were a hand puppet. Somewhere within herself, she screamed out for help, knowing she couldn't put up a worthy fight, but the sound never passed her lips.

As the girl turned toward him, her emerald eyes wide and vulnerable, he smiled again and set his wand on the sink. He knew once he had full control of the girl, she would obey until he dropped his influence. "There we go," he murmured, running the back of his hand down her cheek, "That wasn't so bad." He admired her for a moment before he continued, brushing the golden hair from her face.

"Olive," he said, tracing her neck with his palm, "You've splinched yourself. You shouldn'a run, sweetling." His thumb brushed over her tender eye. "I wouldn't 'ave to hurt you if you would just learn to be'ave yourself."

Olive wanted to fight, but she couldn't find it within her body to follow through with the actions. All she could do was stare up to his rugged face as he ran his hands over her neck. He leaned close to her, his fingers gentle for once, grabbing her hair as he brought his face into it and taking in the lovely scent.

After a moment, he raised his head up and stepped back, hand outstretched.

"Give me my wand."

Olive reacted in an instant, grasping the wand which she had tucked under the waist of Hermione's jeans.

 _"Stop. Stop. Stop,"_ Olive willed herself, her brain frantic as her body betrayed her, handing over the wand to the rightful owner. Scabior's eyes lingered on her waist before grabbing the wand. He laid his fingers to rest on her hip, tracing down to the bare spot where his wand had just laid, watching her face closely as he slid his finger under her jeans. Her eyebrows twitched with just the slightest movement.

"What an interesting place for my wand. Miss me, did you?"

Inside, Olive was clawing the man's face off for laying his disgusting hands on her, but he only saw the slight quiver of an eyebrow once again.

His chest filled with sick contentment knowing that he'd made her furious enough to break her exterior form. Even the smallest twitch could only be triggered by a passionate emotion. Scabior basked in knowing it was her hatred for him that caused the tiny movements and that he held someone who so thoroughly loathed him right in the palm of his hand.

He could clench his fist around her throat and finish her now if he wanted. He could do anything.

Scabior eyed the tub behind her, grin widening as he moved his hands up to cup her face, rubbing a thumb over her split lip. "Take off your clothes," he demanded, stepping away from her to watch the scene unfold.

Olive had passed angry and now just grew sad and confused as her hands wrapped around her, pulling the shirt over her head. She couldn't help feeling self-conscious as she exposed herself to him.

Scabior caught a masculine, woodsy scent against her skin, not knowing she had worn Weasley's clothes earlier. It infuriated him, but he managed to keep his face in a mocking glare.

Olive's hands struggled with the button of the jeans, Hermione being a good bit smaller than her. Scabior stepped forward, leaning in close to the girl and unbuttoning them himself. He drew in a long breath, taking in the masculine scent so that he might remember it.

She was going to pay for that.

Olive stood before him, letting him take in her naked body. "Run your bath water," he told her in a distracted tone. He couldn't tear his eyes from the purple blotches that spread over her pale limbs and torso. Satisfaction blossomed in his chest, knowing he'd been the one to put the bruises on her.

He watched as she bent over to turn the taps and instantly followed after her, pressing himself against her bent form. "Stay," he commanded as she began to rise. Olive could feel him against her, running his hands over her hips.

Scabior rubbed over the purple masses in awe. _'Beautiful,'_ he thought. An idea came to mind.

"Come 'ave a look at yourself in the mirror, love," he said, stepping away from the girl as she stood and walked toward the mirror. Olive was shocked at her reflection, feeling frightened as Scabior stepped into the image behind her. Her eyes took in his face - the strong jaw line, the straight nose, the black scruff covering his cheeks. She watched his dark eyes as they did the same to her, watching the bow of her lips, the curve of her cheeks, the light freckles on her nose. He looked up and met her eyes, loathing behind her gaze.

"Take a look, Olive," he said, wanting to make sure she knew who was in charge, "Look at your lips." Olive's eyes followed the order that had been given. Her lower lip was still swollen, the small cut peeking out from her mouth.

"Look at your eye." It was deep purple, the outside skirted with a sickly yellow.

She felt him grasp her hand and hold it up, showing the dark bruises on her wrist. He allowed her to look at it for a good, long moment, then dropped her wrist and met her eyes through the mirror again, running his hands over her exposed shoulders.

Olive cringed inside when he lowered his lips to her shoulder and dragged them, light as air, toward her neck, keeping his eyes trained on hers. Goose bumps erupted over the skin as his lips grazed by with his hot breath, all the way to her ear, and her eyebrow gave another twitch. With a dark chuckle, he moved his arms down to wrap around her shoulders.

"If you'd just listen to me, Olive, I wouldn't 'ave to do these things. Don't you understand?"

Olive glared back at him through the mirror, unable to say the numerous curses that were coursing through her brain. "Tell me you understand," he ordered, letting his lips find the crook of her neck, along where she had splinched. The scar was a thick snake, starting at her collar bone and crawling up her neck, jaw, and ending on her cheek, breaking off here and there in jagged edges. It made her feel sick just looking at it - no wonder Hermione had been so reluctant to tell her about her wounds.

"I understand," she said, glaring pure hatred from her eyes. He smiled against her neck, looking up to take in the image of his arms around her. She was a pretty girl, but her battle scars and dark bruises gave her all the more beauty. He closed his eyes and took in her scent, unashamed of his attraction. He hated her - wanted to hurt her. Kill her. But, he still fancied her over the others, even if there was the woodsy scent clinging to her skin. It made him hate her more. And he liked his attraction for her because it made her hate _him_ more. And the more she hated him, the more obsessed he became.

"Go turn off your water and get in the tub," he said against her neck, seeing a slight look of relief in her eyes to be out of his arms. More goose bumps erupted over Olive as she lowered herself into the water, the warmth welcoming her after months of frigid lakes and ponds.

Scabior approached the girl and kneeled next to the tub. He placed his hand on her neck, forcing her to lean back into the water. For a split-second, he felt her pulse under his fingertips - three quick beats until he lost the feeling. She was terrified that he was touching her. It sent him over the edge.

Both his hands were on her neck in the blink of an eye, pushing her face under the water as the bubbles escaped to the surface. He could feel her pulse again - quick and erratic. Scabior quickened his grip after a moment as both the bubbles and the beats began to slow. He could see her face blurred as the water began to settle, only a few lone ripples disturbing the image.

He held her there for a minute longer, the bubbles becoming nonexistent as the surface cleared. Scabior looked down on the girl, growing hard as her pulse slowed a considerable amount. Maybe after she was dead, he would slide in on top of her and fuck her right there in the tub.

But, his stomach clenched when her face became clear.

There she was - no air, barely any pulse - with the fucking angriest look he'd ever seen. And that was saying something, considering she had no control of her body. In disbelief, his hands went under her arms and lifted her back above the surface. He turned to grab the shampoo, not wanting the uncertainty to be seen on his face.

"That was for stealin' my wand and runnin' off. Don't make me do that to you again."

The piercing look she'd given him caused his blood to rush, filling him with excitement.

He set to cleaning her filthy hair, a surge of panic passing through Olive when he dunked her under to rinse it out. He completely washed her - enjoying that she was dependent on him for such a small task. Scabior liked the fact that he had complete control of her, that he wouldn't even let her wash herself. After he was done, he let her soak for a while, glancing back up to her when he finally opened the drain.

Olive still had the livid expression on her face, causing Scabior's breath to catch in his throat as he thought of the girl under him, writhing against his skin. She was afraid of him, yes, but she was madder than hell. And that made him want to humiliate her more than ever.

"Show me your father's bedroom," he demanded, their eyes never breaking. Olive stood from the bath, droplets of water rolling down her skin, and stepped onto the cool tile. The air caused goose bumps to rise all over her, but despite telling her body to run, she stepped out of the bedroom and led him down the hall. Her feet left wet imprints on the plush carpet, clear down to her father's bedroom door, which was standing half open.

Scabior was going to make her hate him even more. He jumped into her father's bed, bouncing a few times with a wicked grin. "Springy," he said, a dark glint in his eye.

Olive felt she was going to be sick, but she forced herself from looking around the room. _'Not here,'_ she thought, _'Please not here,'_ but her pleas never formed in her mouth.

"Come here, Olive," he said, looking as though he would devour her whole. The carpet crept between her wet toes with every step, but stopped when her knees nudged the soft mattress. "Now crawl over here to me."

The things Scabior made her do after made Olive feel worthless - disgusting. As best as she could, she concentrated on the lighter streak through his hair, if only to escape the things he was doing to her. In the light of her father's room, it seemed more vivid and Olive found a small comfort in watching it dance when he made her straddle him. Time seemed to stretch on forever, her knees on either side of him, his hands on her hips while the daylight stretched into dusk.

A light sheen of sweat was now covering her brow while a knot rested in her throat. Olive had been trying not to be sick as his hands continually roamed her. If she got sick, he would kill her in an instant. Instead she swallowed the thickness in the back of her mouth, helpless to the influence he exerted over her. Olive's eyes found the piece of reddish hair again and made it her main focus, until she began feeling something building within her own body. Scabior could feel it, too, the small quivers around him, and he let out a huff of breath, grin breaking his otherwise concentrated expression.

"There we go," he breathed, picking up the pace until Olive nearly thought she would explode, looking at the strands of his hair now through tears, a few slipping down her cheeks. Everything was building up inside her and she was so angry with herself that she broke through his curse for the smallest moment, a fleeting sob heaving from her chest before she was locked back under his control.

Soon after, the wave inside grew and she knew her body would betray her any moment, but right as things were about to crash within her, right at the peak, Scabior released his influence on her. She was Olive, she had control, and in that second of release she let out a small cry, the wave surging through her body, causing her knees to quiver against his thighs.

It seemed like forever, Olive sitting there on top of him, holding her face to hide her tears, though her sobs shook both of them and gave her away. She wouldn't look at him, she knew he was looking up at her with a satisfied smirk and she couldn't handle it. When he reached up to brush the hair away from her face, she swatted his hand in a fury, swinging her other fist and socking him in the jaw.

In an instant, she was off the bed, darting toward the bedroom door, aiming to reach his wand in the bathroom. Having expected her attempted escape when he released her, he was ready for the chase. Though the punch had set him back, he caught her around the waist before she got out the door, pulling her back with such force that her legs lifted in front of her and she thought he might rip her in two.

They tangled for a few moments, Olive butting the back of her skull against his forehead, but it ended with her slammed against the wall, his forearm crushing into her neck. Her fingers slid against his arm, trying to pry it away, but they were growing clumsier by the second as white spots began to dance in her eyes. This was the dessert for Scabior.

Olive managed to squeeze her fingers between his arm and her neck, wheezing out ragged breaths, tasting the tears on her tongue. "Stop," she wheezed, giving him a pleading look, "I'll take you to Harry Potter."


	7. Chapter 7

_EDITED: 02/21/2015_

Her eyes were still swollen a half hour later after they had trudged through the deep snow that ended in the warm house. The temperature, however, was about the only thing that could be considered warm about her surroundings. Everything seemed so dark and cold - sea foam greens, tarnished silvers, smooth cut stones. The possessions were so pristine - so sterile - that Olive worried one slight touch might break something that cost more than she could ever imagine. Even the people - tall, lean, pale - sat with perfect precision, their shoulders straight and chins upright, though the forlorn looks on their faces didn't seem right with the otherwise proud appearance.

The Malfoy family. Olive was sitting across from Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy in their parlor, their deep burgundy seats - which would be plush and inviting on any other occasion - seeming formidable in the thick air. Not a word had passed between them yet, though their cool eyes never left her, a faint look of distrust etched around their sharp features. Olive didn't trust them, either. She was a mudblood, after all. Dirt - scum. This was a place where she didn't belong. Life certainly had a way of being unexpected. Two years ago, Olive would have never believed she would have ended up being within a hundred yards of their home, let alone inside it. She still remembered those days at Hogwarts, watching Draco out of the corner of her eye, teasing herself with things that would never come to be.

"What happened to your eye?" Mrs. Malfoy asked, fidgeting in her seat as if she couldn't stand the silence any longer. Another long moment passed while Olive decided she didn't enjoy the tone in the woman's voice - it was an unattached interest which didn't sit well with her. It was almost as if the woman was judging her on the basis that a young lady, regardless of blood status or being in the middle of a war, shouldn't walk around with a blackened eye, which angered Olive. The cool, piercing eyes of her husband watched on in silence, never leaving the girl in front of him.

"He beat me into unconsciousness and then proceeded to rape me," Olive said in an even tone, as if they were talking about the neighbor next door. Both of their eyes shot down to the marble table in an instant and Olive felt the ghost of a smile trace her face. There. Silence. The only way to ensure that the conversation didn't continue was to be blunt and make them uncomfortable, for they were not experienced with people who said things so openly. No, these were the type of people that worried what their colleagues might think of them. A small shuffle was heard through the room, amplified by the silence, and the three of them turned to look at who had entered the room. There he stood - just as tall, just as lean, just as pale as his parents that sat before her. For a moment, there was a flicker of horror across his features while his eyes laid on Olive, though it was quickly masked when he turned to his parents.

"They're ready for her," Draco said, his eyes flitting back to Olive again for the slightest second. His parents nodded, though she noted a small look of relief on their faces at the news. Unsure of where Scabior had even gone, she stood, not looking forward to going and meeting whoever _they_ were or whatever _they_ were ready for. Without a word, Draco turned on his heel without so much as a look her way and she followed, a nervous flitting in her stomach that she hadn't felt since she'd last seen him. For a few minutes, they walked in silence, but it became obvious that this house was much larger than it appeared and it would take them more than a short walk to get to where they were going.

"What is the date?" she finally asked, looking out at the snow covered ground from the tall windows as they passed. Another moment of silence passed, so much silence here, before he turned to look at her, an almost sad look on his face while his stride slowed for her to walk next to him.

"December 24th," he muttered, looking back ahead of him as if the mere sight of her had burned him. Olive's eyes found the floor.

"Christmas Eve," she murmured to herself, her own eyes burning for a moment before she straightened up and took deep breath through her nose. "Stupid question, I suppose. I just didn't see a tree," she added, falling into the quiet once again. Figuring that was all to be said, she was surprised when he spoke again.

"We didn't put up a tree this year," he said, a note of bitterness in his voice. "They said it would get in the way."

"That's sort of sad," she answered after a moment, risking a look up at him. There was something sort of pitiful about him, something haunted, but Olive couldn't put her finger on it.

"You didn't know it was Christmas Eve," he said, looking down at her and meeting her eyes for a few steps before returning his gaze to the long corridor in front of them. "I think that's sort of sad."

It was. Olive knew she was in a bad situation, but she didn't realize how pitiful she seemed until someone _she_ found pitiful pointed it out. And pitiful was not a word she liked to associate with herself. In the past few months, she'd grown stronger, physically and mentally, but that was the pitiful part. Olive was only eighteen years old and was forced to grow up just to stay alive, when she should have spent the last few months at Hogwarts, her only worry the upcoming NEWT exams. That perspective in mind, she didn't feel so strong any more. Draco must have noticed because he stopped, looking down at her for a moment before turning around the opposite way and beginning to walk the way they'd just come. Confused, she shook her head a bit and started after him.

"Where are we going?" she asked in a hushed tone, right on his heels.

"I'm just going to show you something really quick," he replied, opening a door and stepping into another long corridor. Olive followed, looking up to the portraits around them, which watched on with feigned interest. Halfway down the hall, he turned and gave her a look that told her not to say a word, then opened a door on the left and stepped in. She grew confused when she realized they were in a bedroom, but then she saw it - a small, baby pine tree sitting in the corner, decorated with clumsy ornaments that had been cut from paper and colored by hand.

"I figured they wouldn't find it in my room," he said. Without a word, she stepped closer to the small tree, reaching out to trace the thin ornaments with her calloused fingers. The drawings on the paper were elegant, colored in rich hues. "They're beautiful," she said, voice thick. She'd gotten to see a Christmas tree this year, something she hadn't even had the time to think about, and the small act of kindness moved her.

But, when she looked up to him, there was a glint of anger behind his eyes.

"I can't stand looking at you with that bruise on your face," he said out of nowhere, looking back to the tree in embarrassment. It didn't surprise her. He'd spent just as much of his time at Hogwarts looking at her from the corners of his eyes as she did him. It had been a mutual thing that they shared, a silent agreement to never speak of it or to each other, besides the occasional 'excuse me', although their eyes usually stayed on each other during meals when no one else would notice. The few times they'd been assigned to be partners in Potions, which they both excelled in, their interactions were curt and to the point, though Olive never missed the pink tinge his ears took when their names were announced together.

"Blame _him,_ " she said. It came out stronger than she wanted it to, more sour, but it wasn't like she could help having a black eye. And she was not about to apologize for something Scabior did. The idea was absurd.

"Can't you make it go away?" he asked, giving her a short look. With a sigh, she concentrated, changing the skin under her eye to match her normal tone. Two strides and he'd closed the gap between them, his index finger reaching up to brush where the bruise had just been. Olive winced, turning her head, but catching a whiff of his cologne, which made her want to stay there forever, away from the stale cigarette smoke that clung to Scabior.

"It still hurts," he noted, taking his fingers away from her eye, but tracing them down to the area of marred skin over her cheek where she'd splinched.

"Of course, it does," she said, looking up at him. He was so much taller than her, even taller than Scabior himself. "It's not gone, just hidden."

"What does he do to you?" he blurted, a note of disgust in his voice. Olive knew he'd been dying to ask this question, though she didn't think he really wanted to know the answer. It came as a great surprise to him when he saw her in his parlor because the story of her escape was widespread, moving from mouth to mouth, climbing even to the Death Eaters. It wasn't so much that Olive had escaped, but more that Scabior had finally messed up, and the gossip had spread with much glee. No one knew yet that Scabior had her back in his fists, but everyone _did_ know that Scabior was a vengeful man, which accounted for the look of horror Draco had first given when he saw her.

"What do you think?" she asked back, a note of misery clear in her voice. Another moment of silence passed and Olive had to wander how well Scabior would be able to smell Draco's cologne clinging to her shirt with only mere inches between them.

There was no noise to be heard as her words settled around them. Draco's hand began to drop from her cheek, but she caught it, clutching it in her fists. "I'll live," she said with a note of finality, her chin lifting upwards in pride, just as his parent's had earlier. "I won't let him be the one to kill me."

"He won't be allowed to kill you soon."

Olive stared at him for a moment, her eyes narrowing. "You know more than you're letting on," she finally said, reading it clear as day on the expression of his face. "Don't lead me into this blind, Draco, please. What am I about to walk into?"

It was the first time his name had ever crossed her lips, the feeling of it foreign, but welcome. Draco looked up to the ceiling, then in a spur of the moment decision, he bent down, lips touching her own. It wasn't long, but it was sweet and chaste, a shuddering sigh leaving her. She enjoyed it for a few seconds before she clenched her eyes shut and ducked her head away, facing the floor. "We've got to go," she said, pain evident in her voice. She took two steps back before opening her eyes and glancing up to him. There was a pained expression on his face, too, but he nodded and led her back into the hall without another word. It seemed forever that they walked, the only sound their footsteps against the stone floor, but he eventually came to a halt outside a heavy looking door and nudged his head toward it. Olive looked up, their eyes meeting for a few seconds, and she managed a nod, pushing the door with a shaking hand.

It was a library, shelves running from floor to ceiling, lit by an overhead chandelier and a fireplace which was quiet in the most eerie way. No cracking logs, no spitting flames. Scabior stood there and she saw his nostrils flare for a moment, fury present in his eyes. Yes, he knew. He most definitely knew. That small comfort she and Draco had allowed themselves would certainly not go unpunished on Olive's behalf. There was a flicker of grey in the corner of her eye and she turned, sucking in a quick breath. There he stood, the long-robed man who had haunted the lives of every filthy mudblood on the planet. The man whose skin seemed dead and cold, whose nostrils were mere snake-like slits, whose eyes lived and burned with a crazed passion, outshining the rest of his face.

Somewhere behind her, the door clicked shut, but the sound seemed amplified, more terrifying than it should. "Olive Westin," said the Dark Lord, the airiness of his voice making her skin crawl, "I've heard so much about you."

Scabior was enjoying the look of terror that she didn't bother to hide. "You're very strange," Voldemort continued, a look of greed gleaming in his eyes.

Olive swallowed the thickness in her throat. "Why is that?" she managed in a squeak, Scabior savoring every second of this.

"A mudblood," the Dark Lord said, a grin growing on his face to expose the jagged teeth inside, "that is willing to fight against those battling for her freedoms."

"Potter is outnumbered," she stammered, rooted to the spot in fear, "Call me a spineless coward all you want, I won't disagree, but I'm out for myself."

The Dark Lord was silent for a moment, looking her over as if appraising her, though there was a clear look of amusement in his face. "I wouldn't call you a coward. I certainly wouldn't call you admirable, either, but I do think you're wise," he said, offering her his terrifying smile. "Pity you weren't born of a higher caliber blood. Though, I suppose I could make room for you in my new world. _If_ you pay the price."

She stiffened, giving him a nod to continue. His eyes, so alive, the most alive thing about him, gleamed in the low light, gazing into her with such intensity that it took her breath away. Shifting on her feet, she lost her nerve and looked to the floor, unable to handle meeting his look any longer. There was a funny feeling in her head and her eyes widened for a moment, though she didn't look up.

 _"Yes,"_ he answered to her silent question. Yes, he was reading her mind. Scabior stood nearby with a quirked brow, unsure of what was going on as he watched the silent exchange. _"Such a drive to achieve your goals,"_ he said, the image of a lifeless Scabior crossing before her eyes. _"And a will of steel,"_ he continued, Olive seeing herself rip her lips away from Draco's. _"Such determination for life,"_ he said, the scene that had taken place earlier now flooding her vision, her fingers prying Scabior's arm away from her neck. She heard herself wheeze out, _"I'll take you to Harry Potter,"_ before she was empty again, alone without the Dark Lord's prying, back in the library with the two men nearby.

"This will make for marvelous entertainment. Come, take his hand."

Olive looked up with a questioning expression, seeing Scabior facing her, his right arm extended. Knowing better than to disobey, she took his hand, as if they were about to shake. With the wave of Voldemort's wand, there were thick, rope-like bindings around their hands, causing her heart to pound in quick successions. Scabior could hear it, feel it against his palm, and a menacing grin curled onto his lips.

"We're doin' an Unbreakable Vow," he said in a dark voice, even his eyes laughing at her. "After your little stunts you like ta' pull, it's a necessary precaution."

Fury pooled in her chest, forgetting their company. "And what if I refuse?" she spat, face burning with anger.

"Then, I'll kill you right now," said the eerie voice beside them, "As you said, Potter is vastly outnumbered. We will eventually find him without your assistance, though you will greatly quicken the hunt. It is your choice. Death or Vow?"

Her eyes never left Scabior's, even as her expression broke into desperation. It was there, right on the tip of her tongue, but her pride won her over in the end, forcing the word away and snapping her mouth shut. It was no matter - Scabior knew what had lingered on her tongue for a moment, threatening to fall out, and that was enough to feed into his oversized ego. His chest welled up with some demented form of pride. She was going to beg him - she was going to say _please._

"The Vow," she whispered, her eyes on the floor to hide her distraught expression. Voldemort gave light chuckle, almost musical, that sent a shiver through Olive.

"Do you, Olive Westin, vow to deliver Harry Potter to the Snatchers to the best of your ability?" the Dark Lord asked, while Scabior's gleaming eyes roamed her face with a look of pure triumph.

"I do," she whispered, eyes still glued to the floor as the tears threatened to well up. A thick, hot rope bound their hands tighter together.

"And do you vow to accept the terms of my new world, that you might live, but will never use magic, with a wand or without, with the exception of magic for your Snatching duties, with the exception of performing magic on Dreagan Scabior's orders and permission, and with the exception of defending or saving a pureblood witch or wizard, so as to preserve the bloodline?"

Olive bit the inside of her cheek as a tear ran down her face, dropping to the floor for Scabior to witness with a grin. "I do." Another thick rope bound around their hands and she wanted to scream when his thumb caressed her wrist.

"Do you vow to be under Dreagan Scabior's command at all times and follow his orders to the best of your ability, never attempting escape?"

"I do," she said, looking Scabior dead in the eye, letting him know she would find a way around it. A smile crept on Scabior's face as another rope tightened, the circulation running low in her fingers which were now smashed against his wrist.

"Do you vow to cause no harm to any Snatcher, Death Eater, or pureblood in the form of assault or death, unless they are fighting for or with the Order of the Phoenix?" the Dark Lord asked.

"I do," she spat, the ropes nearly cutting into her skin with the newest addition.

"And last, do you vow, upon Potter being captured, whether it is you that leads us to him or not, that you will continue service for me in my new world and uphold the previous vows until your death or the death of Dreagan Scabior breaks the agreement?"

A pain began in her chest, her heart thumping as she began to panic. An entire lifetime of being with Scabior, to do as he said, when he said. No fighting, no escaping. For a moment she considered death right then and there.

"I do," she said with fury, the final rope wrapping around their arms and sealing her to him for the rest of her days.


	8. Chapter 8

_EDITED: 02/21/2015_

When the two of them landed in yet another bland area of trees, Scabior promptly let go of her arm and took the bags from his back, tossing them to the ground. He was unpacking the tent before she could even blink and, once she realized what he was doing, she bent out of habit to help him.

Not a single word had passed between them since their departure from Malfoy Manor and Olive had to wonder why he wasn't gloating. Not a single triumphant look had been thrown her way or even the slightest smirk. It put her on the edge. It was even worse that he'd actually taken her back home to gather the bag they'd left there earlier. Only after he'd dumped it and gone through everything there three times. Still, it was unnerving how _not_ cruel he was being.

As soon as the tent was up, he was inside without even a glance her way. Olive didn't like it. No, not one bit. In fact, it made the hairs on her arms stand up, wondering what he was up to. Treading carefully, wondering what she would walk in to, she entered and was surprised to see him sitting at the small table, looking over a few maps while their bags sat nearby on the floor. Unsure of what to do with herself, she went to grab the bags, lugging them up and carrying them back to the bedroom. Everything was just as she remembered, not that she had been gone for long, and she heaved Scabior's bag up onto his bed, a whiff of the pale cigarette smoke attacking her senses with the movement. The bag Hermione had charmed for her felt significantly lighter than Scabior's and she wondered if that was part of the charm or if she really just had that few possessions with her.

She would have a few more possessions soon, however. Before they'd stopped to make camp, Scabior dragged her to the Ministry which, despite a feeling that it had all been a trick and they were turning her in, she was amazed at seeing. When she was disguised as Booke, Olive always stayed behind to watch camp when they went to the Ministry. It was her first time in the Ministry and she looked at everything in awe while Scabior dragged her along, first to the Muggleborn Registration Committee that had sprung up since the fall of the Ministry, then to the Snatcher Registration Department. At the first, they'd waited in a long line, Scabior quiet as he'd ever been, and when they made it to the front, the committee found it such an unusual case that Dolores Umbridge had been notified. When they were led to her office, Olive and Scabior shared their first moment of companionship as they gave each other a horrified glance over the meowing kitten saucers the woman apparently collected. Still, Scabior said nothing and Olive was left to explain her circumstances to the horrid woman she'd once called Headmistress. Umbridge held pursed lips through Olive's story - which left out the more violent and violating parts, if only because she couldn't bring herself to admit that it had happened to her in front of him. When the story was done, Umbridge gave Scabior an expectant look and he crossed the room, handing her some piece of parchment. Olive wasn't sure what the parchment said, but Umbridge nodded, giving a disapproving hum here and there, then heaved a sigh when she'd finished.

"Your circumstances are quite a bit different from the others," she admitted, though it seemed it pained her to do so. "But, after the fiasco Potter and his hoodlum friends caused in the Ministry, I have to agree this is the best course of action." Her voice was sickly sweet, just as Olive remembered, and it grated on her nerves. Not too long ago, Potter and his two friends had broken into the Ministry, released the muggleborns who were awaiting trial, and stolen some trinket off of Umbridge. "You'll be allowed this wand," she said, handing it back to her after the committee had taken it earlier, "And I won't ask who you stole it from. But, if you should weasel your way out of this agreement you've made with," she paused, giving a dark look toward him, " _Scabior,_ then you'll be under full investigation of the committee."

Olive knew what she'd meant by that dark look - it may have been Scabior she made the Unbreakable Vow with, but it was more an agreement with the Dark Lord. All she knew was that Umbridge wrote out a quick letter, handed it to Scabior, and gave Olive a stiff smile before they left for the Snatcher Registration Department. There the line was shorter and the atmosphere more rough. Everyone nodded toward Scabior, their curious eyes raking over Olive, and they were led straight into an office. Once Scabior showed them both letters, there were no questions asked. Olive filled out a simple form, they took her picture, and the two were out the door with a promise that someone would deliver the things she needed where Scabior said they were staying for the night.

Which was in the woods where Olive had come across Potter. They'd first found the exact spot where Olive had sought refuge, but the trio had already moved on. Even then Scabior didn't say a word, no curse, no mutter of anger. It was worrying her. Scabior had apparated them to a different part of the forest and that's when the unpacking began.

Now, inside the tent, it was so quiet that you could hear a pin drop. Olive busied herself with riffling through her bag, pulling things out and refolding since he had just shoved everything inside. "Olive, come here," Scabior called from the kitchen, causing her to stiffen, uncomfortable feeling in her gut. When she stepped into the kitchen, he was leaning over the table, back toward her. Scabior could hear her quiet steps, each one seeming unsure, and he fought the urge to smile. That was what he wanted. He wanted her to wonder what he was up to.

"You're sure she didn't say where they were headed next?" he asked, not looking up from the maps in front of him.

"I'm sure," she said in a thick voice, pausing to clear her throat. "I have no clue where they could be headed." The was a slight edge of fear in her voice, though she kept her eyes glued to the back of his head. What would happen if they couldn't find them? She knew he wouldn't put up with her for too long. He merely grunted in reply, still not turning to look at her. This was going to drive her mad.

"What's the game plan?" she asked, unsure of what to say next. Olive had no idea how to approach a Scabior who wasn't trying to beat the teeth out of her.

Finally, he turned around and she was met with the murky darkness of his eyes before he moved his gaze to just beyond her right shoulder.

"I have no clue," he admitted, though he didn't sound angry, which made her relax just the tiniest bit. "We'll start up tomorrow and keep movin', just like always," he added, his eyes flashing back up to her once again. This was easier than she thought - he was talking to her just as he had any of his other Snatchers. Olive wondered if they would be joining later on, though she didn't voice this question. Before another word passed between them, there was a loud crack from outside and Scabior stiffened in an instant, but not before Olive saw his nostrils flare as he took a drag of the air. Within the second, the tent flaps were thrown back and one of the largest men Olive had ever laid eyes on entered. He was frightening to even look at, a wild look to his entire appearance.

"Fenrir," Scabior said quickly, his eyes looking the man over.

"Dreagan," the man replied, his eyes roaming over to Olive. "This the little sweet'art all the excitement is over? Such a tiny thing given' you all that trouble?"

Scabior gave him a dark look. Olive, on the other hand, offered him a small smile to which he replied with a tasteful wink, as if teasing Scabior was like some secret the two of them shared. She knew this was a dangerous man, more so than she was used to, and thought it might be wise to play to his good side. Scabior was already more than she could handle, she didn't need another monster hating her.

And Fenrir was worse than Scabior ever thought of being. He didn't discriminate when it came to rape, Olive had heard. Men, women, young boys and girls, goblins even. And didn't kill them quickly, either. No, he tore them apart with his formidable claws, one cut at a time. He also had a well-known fetish for infecting children with his lycanthropy.

Feeling the heat rising up his neck, Scabior stood.

"We were just headin' out. You brought the stuff?" he said, earning a questioning look from Olive. Hadn't he just said they were leaving in the morning?

The man nodded, extending his arm not to Scabior, but to Olive, a thick roll of parchment in his hand.

"Yeah, showed up wiv' a couple o' mudbloods, they was all talkin' 'bout you havin' her in there and all. Told 'em I'd bring the stuff by, they never said a word. Should'a seen their faces," Greyback said with a throaty laugh.

Taking the parchment into her own hands, she unrolled it with a tucked brow to see an official letter of pardon from the Ministry, signed not only by Dolores Umbridge, but the Minister himself. Two things fell from inside the parchment when she opened it and Greyback bent to pick them up, handing them back to her with a grin. Though she'd seen them a million times, she never expected to have either of these for her own. A Snatcher I.D. card with her real name, real height, real weight, real picture looking at her with a bored expression, and underneath it was the red armband which each Snatcher bore. This one was a vivid red, though, not worn down yet by the elements. It seemed the brightest thing she'd seen in months.

"Welcome to the winnin' team," Greyback said, though Olive couldn't muster a smile this time around.

"If that's all, we'll be going," Scabior said, nudging his head toward the bedroom, signaling Olive off to go put away her things.

"Actually," the man said, looking Olive over once more before turning to Scabior, "I was plannin' on stayin' a few nights. I've been put in charge o' your old unit and it'll take a few days to track 'em down an' let 'em know. You two go do what you were plannin' and I'll get settled."

The air was tense, even Olive could feel it, but after what seemed an eternity, Scabior nodded and she hurried off to put her things in her bag. She could deal with Greyback for a few days, if only because he took a jab at Scabior. Once she walked back to the men, who were both standing cross-armed eying each other, Scabior took her arm and spun, apparating on the spot. Before she could even register where they were, his hands were on her shoulders and his face was level with her own.

"You're not to go off alone with him," he said, eyes boring into her with such an intensity that it took her breath away for a moment. Once she collected herself, she merely raised her eyebrow.

"Why?" she said. The note of amusement in her voice did not sit well with him and his grip on her shoulders tightened.

"You think I'm bad," he said, his eyebrows tucking, "You haven't seen anything."

The words came across as threatening and she flinched away from him.

"I highly doubt anyone could be as vile as you," she spat once she regained her composure, though she knew it was a lie. The whispers of the awful things Fenrir Greyback had done whisked through the back of her mind, but she pushed them aside. There was a deep silence for a moment, then he released her arms as if she disgusted him. There was a strange feeling of possessiveness that stirred in his chest, making him feel crazed at the thought of someone else touching what belonged to him. He didn't like it.

"I don't like him," Scabior said, "And he doesn't like me. If he's hangin' around, he's up to something."

Olive narrowed her eyes. "You're _afraid_ of him," she said, amusement filling the corners of her mouth.

"And you should be, too," he snapped, turning away from her and walking down Diagon Alley. Most of the storefronts were dark, only a few lit, and Olive figured it was probably because it was a holiday. Obviously there was no true reason for them to be there outside of escaping Greyback and so she took off in the opposite direction from him. It wasn't like Scabior had anything to worry about - it would kill her if she tried to run off - but, still, when he heard her go in the opposite direction, he spun with a scowl and followed behind. He left a good distance between them and, though there was the spare person here and there bustling about, his eyes never left her. Eventually she made her way into a shop, the bells clinging above her, and he leaned against the lamp post outside to wait for her. Olive gave a small smile to the shopkeeper, who gave her a wary look in return, and then she turned to the shelves. It wasn't as if she could actually get anything - she didn't have any money. She wondered if the shopkeeper could tell that she wasn't going to buy anything or if there was some other reason he was less than welcoming. There was a tree set up in the corner and a small sigh left her throat as she made her way over to it, tracing her fingers over the different ornaments there as she had on Draco's tree.

Olive continued around the store for a while, just biding her time, and closed her eyes with a grimace when the bells clanged again, knowing it was time to go. At that point, she had made her way around the store a full time and had once again found herself in front of the Christmas tree, admiring the ornaments. A heaviness settled on her back and she could tell he was standing behind her, though she didn't turn around. Instead, she kept her fingers on the ornaments, eyes tracing the ornate paintings on their surfaces.

"Do you want one?" he asked, the closeness of her voice surprising her.

"I don't want anything bought with your money," she spat, though in a quiet tone as to be mindful of the shopkeeper. There was a pause where she heard coins clanging together from within his pockets.

"You've got your own salary now," he said. She couldn't help it - she turned around, her face meeting his throat, and looked up at him with a questioning look. Surely he wasn't serious. "You're a Ministry employee - you make just as much as anyone else bringin' mudbloods in."

From across the room, she heard the shopkeeper give a loud grunt of disapproval, but her eyes stayed on Scabior, who was simply looking at her with no expression. Back to the unnerving Scabior from earlier. The coins clanged together again and he brought up a handful, placing them in one of her hands without taking his eyes from her.

"Consider it an advance for good behavior," he said with a dark tone, turning and exiting the shop with a smirk toward the owner. Stunned, Olive stood there for a moment, then shook her head and turned toward the tree, knowing exactly what she was going to do. There were two ornaments that had caught her eye and she quickly plucked them from the tree. One was a beautiful gold color with deep purple swirls and the other was much more ornate - a thick silver triangle decorated with green gems. With a quick step, she plopped them on the counter and gave the man an exasperated look.

"Listen," she began in a hurried tone, casting a look back out the window, "I'm in a really bad situation right now. One of these is a gift. I'll pay you to owl it off for me - he'll never allow it to get where it's going."

Looking her over with a disgusted glare, he said nothing.

"I am one, you know," she whispered, giving him a deep look, "A muggleborn, I mean. I don't like that word he used any more than you do." She'd only said it to try and win him over - hell, she used the word herself. It really didn't seem that bad to her, though it was probably because she grew up in the muggle world.

In an instant, a confused look crossed his face, full of questions, but he decided it was probably best not to ask. During times like these, it was only dangerous to get involved with the problems of others. Instead, he nodded, adding up the total of the two ornaments. Olive wasn't surprised to see that Draco's green and silver ornament had cost quite a bit more than her own, but it was worth it. The moment they shared crossed her mind and a blush crept over her cheeks. Yes, she owed him this much - his tree deserved a real ornament. Once she paid the man and pointed out which one was the gift, he began to package it, but she stopped him.

"Hold on, let me write a message," she said, not even asking when she ripped a blank receipt from the man's pad and grabbed a quill, scribbling two quick words before folding it and handing it to the man.

'I'm okay,' it said.

After he wrapped it, he asked where it was going and Olive looked outside once again, noticing that Scabior was standing there with crossed arms, giving her a bored look. "Draco Malfoy, Malfoy Manor," she muttered, her eyes never leaving Scabior's as she slid the man three extra galleons and took her own package, not seeing the grimace on the shop keep's face at the name of the recipient.

"Happy Christmas," she said as she made her way out the door to an irritated looking Scabior.

"Took you long enough," he said, looking down at the tiny package. "I thought I saw two on the counter," he added, giving her a look.

"I decided on just the one," she lied. Scabior merely shrugged it off and that uncomfortable feeling crept back into her stomach as she wondered why he was acting so… _different_.

"I don't feel like making dinner tonight with the wolf hangin' about," he said, looking toward the pub, "Let's just eat here."

Honestly, Olive had no desire to eat within twenty feet of him for fear of being poisoned, but she nodded. If he was going to start treating her halfway decent, she wasn't going to give him a reason not to.

"He doesn't seem so bad," she said, again the rumors of what he had done passing through her mind. Scabior turned and gave her a dark look as if held the door open for her. Once they stepped inside, he ushered them to a booth near the corner.

"Yeah, well, he's usually a bear to deal with," he replied, opening his mouth to say something else, then snapping it shut when the bartender drew close. The toothless man asked them what they would like and Scabior, to Olive's annoyance, ordered for the both of them. Huffing, she threw him a look. Olive drew out the coins she had left and Scabior scoffed, telling her to put them away. She snapped her mouth shut, jaw jutting. Like he said earlier, she made her own money now. There was no reason she wouldn't pay for her own. It rubbed her the wrong way to have him paying, making it feel like she would owe him later on.

"You're the first girl I've ever had out to dinner that was angry about me paying," he said with an amused note, though there was a resigned look behind his eyes.

"Wow, you've taken a girl out to dinner before?"

Now it was his turn to give her a look. Honestly, Scabior enjoyed how she refused to let him have the last word. He adored the fight.

"I have," he said simply, small grin on his face. This was foreign territory for Olive - she was used to being beaten or yelled at, but not treated like a normal human being having a normal human conversation. It frightened her.

"Did they actually agree to it or did you _Imperio_ them first?"

Scabior didn't answer, instead letting his lips curl up into a wider grin that made her actually wonder if he _had._

The silence stretched out between them as she watched the last patches of daylight scatter off through the thin window. The bartender finally arrived, placing a plate in front of each of them and an amber liquid that Olive didn't like the look of. She hadn't heard him when he ordered and now wondered how much gold it would take to convince a bartender to poison someone.

"It's only Firewhisky," he said with a chuckle, watching her as she sniffed the liquid.

"I'm not thirsty," she said with a determined look, waiting for an excuse not to drink it. With an expression of disgust, she pushed the glass away, but Scabior pushed it right back toward her.

"You've never had it, 'ave you?"

With a scowl, she snatched up the glass and took a tiny sip, making a face as the liquid burned her throat. Scabior chuckled again and started in on his plate, so she began as well. They fell into silence again, only giving each other the occasional look. Once everything was squared away with the check and the two glasses were drained - it had grown on her - the two exited, though he still didn't seem like he wanted to go back to the tent yet.

Olive was feeling tired and the sleepy looking street didn't help matters any, nor did the cold. He, however, seemed content in pulling out a muggle cigarette and lighting it up, taking a deep drag off of it and blowing it in the other direction before giving her look. He didn't say anything, though - he just merely looked at her, which made her skin crawl.

"If you hate muggles so much, then why do you smoke those things?" she blurted, just trying to kill the silence. There was a long moment where he took another drag, thinking it over before speaking.

"I don't hate muggles," he said with a shrug, "Or mudbloods or half-bloods. I was in Azkaban and offered the job in exchange for my freedom - who wouldn't jump at the chance? And muggles don't make these kind, anyway."

Olive shifted on her feet, once again hating the silence that had settled, especially since he had been the last to speak. Everything was a power play between them and it bothered her to let him think he was winning, even with something as simple as having the last word.

"How are they any different from muggle cigarettes?" she said with a note of disgust, "They're still bad for you. Not that I care. You could drop dead on the spot and I wouldn't miss any sleep."

That earned her a loud, deep chuckle that echoed off the storefronts and into the falling snow.

"No, I s'pose you wouldn't," he said with a grin. "They're nice, though. Charmed to have different flavors."

Olive wrinkled her nose. "They're disgusting," she argued, waving the smoke from her face as a point. This smoke, however, smelled of cherries and was actually quite pleasant, though she would never admit it.

Scabior looked away from her, though there was a grin that was evident on his face, even from her side view.

"You're just afraid you'll die if you smoke one," he said, taunting her. It felt good to tease her back since he'd been restraining his anger. A scoff from her direction was the only response and he chuckled again.

"I am not," she argued, her arms crossing as her cheeks flared. "They're just disgusting, is all."

He turned, facing her once again with a small look of triumph on his face - one she most certainly did not like.

"Ever had one?" he asked carefully, watched as she shook her head with a disgusted look. "No? Then, how'd you know they're disgusting? Smart girl like you should try something before judgin' it," he said, quirking a brow at her as he extended his own cigarette her way.

"How could they not be disgusting?" she said, turning her nose to the cigarette that was held out for her. "What is this, Hogwarts? You're like a child, trying to pressure me into it."

"Just as I thought," he said, his grin growing, "Afraid you'll drop dead on the spot."

Once again her cheeks flared and she snatched the cigarette from his grip, sticking it up to her mouth and sucking in the sweet smoke. Never having smoked before in her life, she blew the smoke back out and held her hand out to him. There was a great look of amusement on his face and he finally let out a loud laugh.

"You didn't even inhale," he said, eyes lighting up. He took the cigarette back from her and held it so she could see. "Like this," he said, taking a step closer to her so she could more easily see - and so he had an excuse to catch her scent for a moment. He raised the cigarette to his mouth and took a deep drag, then lowered the cigarette so she could watch and inhaled deeply through his nose, finally blowing the smoke out of his mouth and straight into Olive's face. The sweet smoke attacked her for a moment, though she found it pleasant, even if it took her breath away for a moment. With raised eyebrows, he raised the cigarette to her again and she took it, not one to turn down a challenge from _him_ of all people.

Raising the cigarette to her mouth, she mimicked him, though the gracefulness he had pulled off was not quite the affect she had when she started hacking her lungs out after inhaling properly. Scabior took the cigarette back and patted her back while she coughed, a smug expression on his face.

"Terrible," she managed to get out before hacking again. Finally getting herself to stop, she glared up at him with watery eyes. This side of Scabior was _different._ He was boyish and…confusing.

"Well, we could always try the easy way," he said, earning a questioning look from her before he took a long, hard drag and suddenly grabbed her chin. Before she even knew what was going on, his lips were against her mouth and he exhaled, blowing the smoke into her throat. With wide eyes, she gasped, unknowingly inhaling the smoke much easier than last time. Once the smoke had left his lungs, he lingered for a moment, lightly nipping her bottom lip and finally pulled away as she exhaled, watching as the smoke blew out to drift along the deserted street. Her teeth clamped and her eyes flared, shooting him a nasty look which he took with pleasure.

"Let's just go," she spat, crossing her arms and turning away from him. Not that he cared. Scabior only chuckled again and took her upper arm, spinning on his heel and landing them back in the tent for their first evening with the werewolf.

The night, well…it was tense. Greyback, seeing Olive's ornament, went out and cut down a baby pine to put in the tent, so she could hang her one ornament. It was way more pitiful looking than Draco's tree, but Scabior sat in the corner with a moody glare, eyes never leaving the werewolf, and that was all the Christmas present Olive needed this year. Olive wouldn't have so much as acknowledged Scabior for the rest of the evening if Fenrir hadn't suggested a game of cards. Scabior grudgingly agreed, Olive nodded only to stay on Greyback's good side, and ten minutes later they were situated around the dining room table. Scabior drew in the sweet smoke of his newest lit cigarette. Each time he exhaled, he blew it so it assaulted Olive, who merely grit her teeth and shuffled the cards.

After a few rounds, it became blatantly obvious that Fenrir had only suggested it as a manner of annoying Scabior further. It was a difficult game to get the hang of - Olive had never even heard of it before - and it involved playing certain cards which let you skip another player's turn. After only three rounds, it was an unspoken rule that Olive and Fenrir always ganged up on Scabior, who was both highly competitive and a sore loser. He must have been on his fifth cigarette in that small amount of time they'd played and his jaw was set while he gave them both a menacing glare.

"Oh, lighten up," said Fenrir with a cheeky grin, "It's Christmas, you prat, and it's only a game."

This only served to make Scabior's face darker as he looked down to his cards, Olive and Fenrir sharing a quick glance toward each other before breaking out into laughter. Of course, Olive knew better - she knew much better than to laugh at Scabior openly, but it was too hard to resist when she had such a fantastic opportunity and knew he wouldn't touch her so long as Fenrir was in sight.

Another bit of cherry smoke hit her and she suppressed the shudder that ran down her back, looking up to glare at Scabior who gave her a wicked smirk before laying a card down for his turn.

"Scabior, go get us some'fing to drink. A Firewhisky sounds nice," Fenrir said in a lazy voice, reaching over for Scabior's package of cigarettes and stealing two without asking. He lit them both up simultaneously and handed one to Olive, who took it with a grimace, certainly not going to turn it down after the earlier incident. A moment hung between everyone - Scabior shifted uncomfortably, his eyes darting to Olive, then he nodded and stood. Olive could tell he didn't want to leave her alone with him and she shot him a rather nasty look. She could take care of herself just fine.

"What d'you want, Olive?" Scabior asked, an undertone of menace lacing through each word which Fenrir either didn't notice or pretended not to as he shuffled the cards.

"A Butterbeer would be nice, butler," she said, tongue in cheek, and Greyback roared with laughter. Oh, she would pay for that, she knew she would, but she couldn't resist. Something about Fenrir's teasing made her want to do it while she could. Those small jabs made her feel loads better about her current predicament. Narrowing his eyes toward her, he spun on his heel and was gone from the room.

"Stick in the mud he is, i'dn he?" Fenrir asked, causing Olive to force her head down to stifle her giggle. There, Fenrir wasn't so bad, was he? Scabior had expected her to be prejudiced against him for merely being a werewolf, but she'd gotten along well enough with Professor Lupin. And surely those rumors couldn't be all true. Yes, he had an intimidating appearance, but he didn't seem _that_ bad after spending some time with him. In fact, this was the most fun Olive had since the last time she was in Hogwarts.

Olive lit the cigarette, trying to cover the look of distaste she felt present on her face, and took a small drag. She inhaled softly, exhaling and managing not to cough.

"You excited for tomorrow?" he asked, giving her a careful look, "First day on the job, 'n all. Well, wiv' pay."

Olive's brow furrowed when she realized what a horrible person she was. _Yes,_ she was excited for tomorrow. Not to be condemning others like herself, no, but to be making her own money at it. It was the one thing she could control that Scabior couldn't and she would cling to that until she got out of this mess, then beg forgiveness for her sins after. Olive gave a curt nod and Fenrir leaned across the table, lowering his voice to the slightest whisper. It was strange to see such a soft sound come from such a large man. "Don't trust 'im," he said, giving her a sharp look, "He can be very charming when he wants."

Before she could form an answer Fenrir sat back and Scabior returned with a bottle, two shot glasses, and a smaller bottle for Olive. She took another drag of her cigarette, only letting a small cough this time.

"There," he said in an annoyed tone, "I'm finishing this game and that's it. We've got a big day tomorrow and I'm not stayin' up all night with this nonsense."

Another small smile was passed between Fenrir and Olive, the latter bowing her head to hide it while the former nodded. The teasing made her able to push her bad thoughts aside, which she was thankful for. Charming. Yes, she could see that. If you'd of asked her a month ago, she would have laughed at the thought. But he'd somehow dampened her fear of him while they were on Diagon Alley and she knew it was that boyish mask he'd put on. Was she that easy to manipulate? Or was he that good at manipulating?

"Alright, then," Fenrir said, "I believe we were just about to kick your sorry arse again." Fenrir dealt out the cards and the playing continued, stretching on another hour or so until the bottles were drained, Olive had won, and all three were feeling rather sleepy from the alcohol.

After a lengthy argument about who slept where between the two men, Olive, much to her displeasure, ended up in the double bed with Scabior while Fenrir took her single bed. This was, of course, Scabior's way. Fenrir had argued that Olive should take her own bed while the two men shared the double bed, which only made Olive like him that much more. Oh, the look of horror on Scabior's face. Fenrir had been joking the entire time, but never let it on to the other, only giving Olive a passive wink before the argument had even begun.

Olive was happy to see that Scabior didn't try anything funny, though she knew this was more than likely because Fenrir was there and definitely not because he was having a change of heart. Keeping her body stiff as a board, so as not to accidentally touch him in any manner, she eventually drifted off to sleep, where things got really bizarre.

At some point in her dream - whether it was more towards the beginning or end, she didn't know - Scabior had made an entrance. But, it was different. Although she couldn't recall exactly how he was dressed, she knew there were no menacing boots or plaid trousers. Not even his coat, which she'd hardly seen him without. That, though, was only the tiniest change compared to the rest. He was smiling, really smiling, and the feeling Olive got was what terrified her the most. It wasn't fear or loathing or hatred. It wasn't love, no, certainly not, but it was adoration. Pure adoration for him, her heart picking up as he neared with that smile on his face. He even laughed, brushing the hair from her face with both hands and bending to place his lips on her forehead.

Olive's eyes shot open, then over in Scabior's direction in an accusing manner, thinking he'd messed with her mind while asleep, but he was facing the other direction with a steady stream of breath going in and out.

Her hands began shaking as she tried to swallow the knot in her throat.

What was _that?_

What the _fuck_ was that?

The rest of the night she couldn't sleep and eventually slid out from the covers, feeling the need to put as much distance between herself and him as possible. As quiet as she could, she rustled through the things in her bag, pulling out a warm enough outfit for the day and practically running to the bathroom where she locked the door in a heartbeat. The clothes were thrown to the floor and the taps turned on cold while she wildly splashed her face a few times, looking up to the mirror, even her knees trembling.

_What the fuck was that?_

With no idea of the time, she changed in haste and went out into the bitter cold were she sat near fallen tree, feeling suffocated in the small tent. She brought her knees to her chest, wrapped her arms around her legs, and rested her face between them, rocking herself to and fro to keep warm.

"What the fuck?" she whispered to herself, voice frantic.

It was just a dream. It couldn't have lasted thirty seconds. The dream was probably alcohol induced, was all. It had to be. She'd never, ever, _ever_ in a million years dream of something so - she shuddered at the thought. Looking up at the pale blue sky, she ran a hand over her face, brushing the hair behind her ear just has he had, her bottom lip quivering at the thought.

What the fuck was wrong with her? This man - this fucking monster - had beaten her, murdered her father, raped her, belittled her, manipulated her. She shook her head, placing it back between her knees. It was nothing. It was her subconscious reaching out to tell her that was how she wished things to be rather than how they were. Yes, that made perfect sense. If he weren't such an absolute monster - had he never done any of those things to her - if he was normal, respectable, then, yes. She could understand that. She accepted that. She clung to that theory. Like Fenrir said, he was charming. It had to of been the way he chuckled at her in Diagon Alley, warmth in his eyes. It was a façade. This is what he wanted, he wanted her confused. Scabior was sick, this was just part of the game.

Inside the tent, the men dressed. Fenrir was in a grog, noticing nothing out of place, while Scabior was sharp, knowing Olive couldn't have gone too far or with the intention of escaping. It was an ease on his mind, this Vow they'd taken.

A twig snapped and Olive's head jolted up, looking up to the man who was on her thoughts, then right back down to her knees.

"You forgot your armband," Scabior told her, voice rough from sleep. He watched her fidget at his voice and was happy to see maybe she knew the trouble she would be in over how she acted last night. After Greyback left, of course. "Come here, let me tie it on you."

Olive's cheeks grew a vivid pink, a mixture of both the dream lingering and the embarrassment of the dream itself. When she stood, she kept her eyes glued to the ground, almost as if it would pain her to look away. Unknowing to her, Scabior arched an eyebrow.

"Something wrong?" he asked

Olive gave a stiff shake of her head, taking a steadied breath as he wrapped the red band around her arm, and darting away from him as soon as it was done.

Fenrir exited the tent and stretched, yawning loudly. Scabior narrowed his eyes toward the werewolf, wondering if it was something he had done or said to Olive while he was asleep, but he laid out no accusations.

"Got the enchantments up?" Greyback asked, looking over toward the two of them, to which Scabior shrugged and waved his wand.

"Now they are," Scabior said, eyes still boring into Greyback, wondering what he had done.

"Well, then," he said, face menacing, "let's do some Snatchin'."

The next few days for Olive included Snatching and staying as far away from Scabior as humanly possible. That was about it. On their first day, they'd managed to find a group of three wizards and two goblins. One of the wizards, a boy Olive recognized from her year in Gryffindor house, and one of the goblins managed to escape. The other three were captured, interrogated, and then killed in one of Scabior's furies. "Weren't worth much anyway," Greyback told her with a shrug. "Ten for the goblin, maybe 50 for each of the mudbloods." Olive didn't remember the names of two, but the older wizard's last name was Tonks and she wondered if he had been related to the lady who helped her with her Metamorphmagus lessons.

The second day went better. They caught an entire camp of mudbloods. Thirty all together, traveling in one big camp. They waited all day, well into the night for them to sleep. Idiots only left one guard awake, who was easy enough to bind and silence. Then Scabior and Olive took to the tents one at a time, first silencing them while they slept, then binding them and carrying them out to the growing pile where Greyback kept watch for runners. They'd set up camp there when they were finished, rummaged through their things for valuables, and in the morning cashed in at the Ministry. That trip alone earned them each 300 galleons. Olive didn't even feel bad about it. If they were stupid enough to travel in a huge pack, not put up enchantments, and only keep one guard, they deserved to be caught.

The next few days were alright. Greyback would disappear every now and then to try and see if any of the Snatchers he was now over had stopped in at the Ministry. A few had straggled in and had been told to go home until they heard word from Greyback. There were still two more that had yet to show up and Fenrir wanted to wait until he had his whole crew before taking off. Scabior was beginning to suspect he was prolonging his time with them in case they ran into Harry Potter, so he could take a chunk of the reward. The thought angered Scabior - Olive was _his_ and she was going to find Potter, therefore the money should belong to _them._

After about a week, the fiasco happened.

It was early morning and the sun was peeking over the trees as the birds were beginning the chirp. It was also so cold that it hurt to breathe and Olive's feet were already hurting from her old hiking boots. They were walking the woods one careful step at a time and the ground was rough there, causing pains to shoot through her heel with every other step. Should any one of them see anything, they were to give a two-note whistle. Olive couldn't whistle, so to make things easier they put her in the middle where their hearing reached. If the runners made any noise in Olive's path, the men would hear and apparate to her. After that was decided, they had spread out and combed through the forest, having heard shouting voices not five minutes after apparating there.

There it was again - a voice talking from not too far away. To Olive's annoyance, she realized it was somewhere in front of her. The others would have heard that, surely, since they weren't even a mile from each other. Might as well check out what she could before the men got there. Swallowing to prepare herself, she slowed and eased her steps, peering from side to side. Up ahead there was a drop-off and she was almost certain the noise had come from there. Getting on her stomach, she crawled across, peering over the other side. There it was, a small tent nestled in the valley. Fucking idiots, why didn't they use an enchantment?

"It's not my fault they're stupid," she muttered to herself, getting into a crouched position and stepping sideways down the slope, so as not to bring attention to herself. Her wand was out, just in case, but she wanted a closer look to see if she recognized either of the two. Nearing the bottom of the hill, she noticed the voices were coming from inside the tent and she crept forward, careful not to cast a shadow on the side of the fabric as she rounded the tent. The flap opened and she froze, though the woman passed without seeing her. Olive was half-hidden by the corner of the tent, not sure whether to duck behind or stand still as stone. Either way would risk detection.

"I'm not fucking leaving yet!" called a man's voice from inside the tent. Olive's blood ran cold when she realized that she knew the woman. It was Undesirable No. 7 - Henrietta Walrich. She had been the head of the Muggle Liaison in the Ministry and had to go on the run after refusing to implant memories of knowledge and fear of the wizarding world into the minds of captured muggles. The last poster Olive had seen had boasted a 20,000 galleon reward for her capture.

Without warning, the woman turned and froze, seeing Olive. It was now or never. Olive started toward her, raising her wand, but the woman was quicker and disarmed her. Not dissuaded, Olive lunged, grabbing onto Walrich and effectively tackling her to the ground while the man fell from the tent and took off, leaving the woman behind. Two pops were heard while Olive struggled with the woman, who was trying to turn her over so she was on top and could escape. Footsteps hurtled from behind and suddenly Olive felt herself trapped, wrapped in thick binding and unable to move save for squirming.

"Wrong fucking one, you idiots!" she screamed, thrashing while the other woman got untangled from Olive and shot away, darting into the woods like the man before her had. Olive laid in disbelief as both Scabior and Fenrir zoomed past. "Run faster!" Olive screamed, "She's number seven!"

She must have laid there for nearly a half hour after she'd lost hearing of their footsteps. Surely to Merlin they hadn't captured them and taken them straight to the Ministry without coming back to release her first. Though, the more she thought about it, the more it became a possibility. They were both the sort to leave her laying there so she wouldn't get a cut of the gold.

Another half hour passed before she heard angry muttering and footsteps crashing through the dead leaves. It was bitter cold, but at least there wasn't snow on the ground here. When Scabior finally entered her vision, her stomach dropped. The two had gotten away, she could tell from his expression. Scabior's track record was beginning to slip and people would begin to talk.

"Fat load of help you were," Scabior accused, whipping his wand through the air to release Olive from the bindings. "If you could have just managed something as simple as disarming, we wouldn't have lost them."

Olive stood and shook the ropes from around her, anger bubbling in her stomach. "I _might_ have been more help if one of you two idiots hadn't fucking bagged me instead of the hag!"

The backhand came so quick that it took Olive's breath away, knocking her back into a tree.

"I've never missed," he spat, anger evident in his eyes. "Blame Greyback."

 _'Blame Greyback,'_ he thought. Scabior had never seen the werewolf miss on his aim, either. He suspected Greyback had intended for Scabior to go back to Olive sooner, so he could cash out on Walrich all for himself. Unfounded, though, Scabior could say nothing. Especially since the witch had gotten away. He gave Olive a final chilling look and apparated back to camp.

Olive felt warmth on her face and raised a hand to her lip, realizing he'd split it again. Camp seemed like the last place she wanted to be, but she couldn't handle the cold anymore and violent shivers had already begun while she was tied up on the ground. She straightened herself and began the search for her wand, finding it finally behind the tent. Knowing Scabior had left in a fury and Greyback didn't seem to be returning, she took it upon herself to sack the tent the witch had left behind. Scabior was clearly at a breaking point between Greyback and Olive, so maybe if she found something valuable and handed it over to him, she could buy herself a few loyalty points. It felt good to give him a hard time with Greyback, but that backhand reminded her exactly who she made that Unbreakable Vow with. Scabior was her partner in this and her life laid with his whims - she was going to have to start being more smart about how she treated him.

After everything had been tipped over and broken in the tent, Olive found it. Hidden in a pillowcase was a long, slender box. Inside was payment enough to keep Scabior sated for the moment. It was a thick gold chain, the pendant at least three inches across, a deep emerald stone. It was no 20,000 galleons, but she bet they could get at least 5,000 out of it to the right seller. Olive grinned, stuffing it into her bra. It was important that Greyback not know, he might see it a slight to their friendship. With a crack, she apparated back to camp, passing an irritated looking Greyback who was sulking outside by the fire. Good, they were apart. When she entered the tent, Scabior shot her a nasty look but she held a finger over her mouth, eyes telling him to follow her. Back in the bedroom, she turned and found him on her heels, confused expression. With a triumphant smile, she pulled the necklace from under her shirt and presented it to him.

Scabior's eyes lit up in an instant. He looked it over with care, inspecting every inch, holding it up to the light, biting on the metal. The look on his face told her this was the real deal. Silent, so as not to alert Greyback, he brushed the hair back on both sides of her face, grasping the sides of her head as he planted a kiss on her forehead, grinning against her skin. Olive's stomach clenched, though she couldn't help but keep smiling.


	9. Chapter 9

_EDITED: 02/21/2015_

"I'm off," Greyback said, stepping outside of the tent into the chilled air. Olive only nodded in return, not looking up from her knees. The stump she sat cross-legged on all morning was beginning to make her body go numb. But, out in the snow, she could breathe. Inside the tent, the tension was suffocating. All pride Scabior had put in her for finding the necklace the night before had faded with the rising sun. It wasn't enough to keep his full moon moodiness at bay.

"Don't worry, ain't like he's gonna kill ya, you're the meal ticket."

Olive stayed silent. This day was inevitable, but she'd hoped the necklace might help. As the morning wore on, Scabior thought less and less of the jewelry and more about yesterday's fuck up. She knew he was inside listening to them, seething. Despite not being an actual werewolf, one of the unfortunate downsides of Greyback's scratch was the even worse mood swings and violence Scabior projected during the full moon. He would thrash out on even the smallest things. Before, it wasn't so bad. The other men always did something stupid and so his wrath was aimed their way. But, now - now it was different. Greyback would go out, hunting on his own far from any Snatchers, and Olive would be left as Scabior's only distraction.

There was nothing left to say between the two of them and, realizing she wouldn't even look up at him, Greyback gave an irritated grunt and disappeared with a sharp crack.

And so her day began. Knowing it irritated him beyond belief to have his crew sit around and do nothing, Olive stretched out her aching legs, standing from the stump. Now that she was the only crew, she'd have a lot of work. Bright snow covered everything in sight, except for the tent and a few tree trunks here and there that stuck out in stark contrast. Months with Snatchers had engrained the duties into her brain - first she had to gather wood. They were running low, since neither Scabior nor Greyback were the sort to do the hard work, so she pulled the wand from her jacket and started off in search of the driest limbs she could find. Olive thought she would be safe using magic since this was technically a Snatcher duty and not against her Vow, but some dark cynical part in her hoped it would just kill her so she could be done with all this.

The memory of last night, his lips on her forehead, made a shiver run down her spine. How someone could turn so quick from happy to livid, she couldn't comprehend. Olive shook the thought off with a disgusted grunt, trying to shake the dream it reminded her of as well. In the muggle world, he would have been slapped with a mental illness diagnosis.

Not far from the tent she stopped, looking around for a direction to start in when she heard a frustrated growl and glass being thrown. Those poor plates had been mended so many times that the cracks were beyond magical help. The crashing of glass continued from the tent and she jumped, taking off in the opposite direction. Anywhere away from him.

There was no need to set wards since they had no reason to hide, so she walked far enough that the tent was out of sight before she started eying the trees. Here and there, after a half hour or so, she'd found two decent trees to choose from. Only a few dry limbs were in her arms when she heard his crunching steps coming after her in the snow. As she turned, he smacked the branches from her arms, shoving into her chest so hard that she toppled over into the snow.

"What the fuck is your problem?" she said once she regained her breath. From down in the snow, he towered over her, pupils dilated as they always did during the full moon.

"Did I _tell_ you to get wood?" he spat, face twisted in a cruel, menacing glare.

"You would have flipped out if I just sat there and did nothing," she said in retort. For the smallest fraction of a second, the darkness of his eyes seemed to shift in the light and Olive's breath left her in a single huff of fear.

"I'm the one who gives the orders," he said, voice even in an eerie way that frightened her more, "You don't do nothin' without me tellin' you first."

A sick aura seemed to be rolling from him, filling the void between them and ensnaring Olive. It was like nothing she'd ever felt before. She gave a wide-eyed nod, not trusting her voice. With her current disadvantage in this entire situation, she would have to pick her battles wisely. And full moon Scabior was even darker, even more twisted, even more temperamental than usual.

"Good, now pick the wood back up," he said, crossing his arms to supervise. Olive only nodded again, picking herself up and dusting the snow from her clothes. There were a hundred nasty things she wanted to spit at him that second, but she held her tongue, still feeling his sick aura around her. Instead, she focused on grabbing the scattered limbs.

"We're gonna be down here all night if you don't hurry it up," he prodded, glare never once leaving her. Olive drew a deep breath, trying to calm the fury and fear that were building inside. Even so, she worked a bit more quick, gathering the limbs and then staring at him.

"What now?" she asked in a dry tone, knowing she was pushing it. But, if he was going to make it miserable for her, she would annoy him senseless and ask for orders on every little thing.

"Go back to camp and start a bloody fire, you stupid cunt," he said, muttering, "Merlin help me, I'll kill her," under his breath. The last bit made Olive's stomach squirm, but she pretended she didn't hear. The snow sunk deep with each step, but they trudged back to camp and after a few minutes she had the fire going.

Coins clanked as Scabior ruffled through his shirt pocket. "Go buy some fuckin' lunch," he said, flicking the galleons her way and hitting her in the face with them. Olive swallowed, trying to keep her temper in check. "Well, pick them up!" he said, eyes flashing with a dangerous flare before he stalked back into the tent. It was difficult to pick up the coins with her fingers trembling, but she managed after a few tries and apparated as soon as she did, wanting as far away from him as possible.

The streets of Diagon Alley were empty and uninviting. She'd thought they were empty last time she was there because it was a holiday, but it was clear now that the storefronts were dark because they were out of business. When she stepped inside the Leaky Cauldron, there were only three other people there - two people talking in hushed voices from a corner booth and the bartender Tom. The little bell over the door jingled as she entered and all three turned, giving her a long look. In the darkness of the pub, she felt like her red armband was glowing, branding her the enemy.

Tom didn't hide his look of disdain when she approached the bar, but said nothing while he wrote down her order.

"The loo?" she asked when the last of her order was written down. Tom jabbed a finger toward a doorway in the corner. "Thanks," she muttered, keeping her eyes glued to the ground as she walked, but noticed the two hushed voices stopped when she walked by.

The bathroom was just as dimly lit as the rest of the pub, but well enough that she could see her reflection in the mirror over the sink. Locking the heavy door behind her, she turned to the sink, running the taps to wash her shaking hands. The dread of going back to Scabior was rolling in her stomach and she was trying to swallow the bile in the back of her throat. Olive wet her hands again and bent to wash her face, pressing fingers along her eyes to hide the redness that was growing. It was no use, though. When she looked back up to the mirror and took in her reflection for a long moment, the tears came spilling out anyway. One shaking hand covered her mouth, trying to muffle her gasping sobs.

Though the swelling in her eye had disappeared, it was still a dark purple, skirted with a sickly yellow that covered half her face. It was also the first time she really got to inspect her splinch wound, as she avoided the mirror in their tent, and it was fully healed now. The skin bubbled out and twisted, snaking over her from neck to cheek like some river run wild. There was a new bruise, too, across the front of her neck where Scabior had tried to choke her before they went to Malfoy Manor. When she saw that one of the coins he'd thrown earlier left a small cut above her eye, it was all she could handle. Her hand flew from her mouth to the wall for balance and she emptied her stomach into the toilet. Oh Merlin, she hoped no one heard. Just the thought of another two days alone with him made her spill over into the toilet again, the image of his face making her stomach roll with nausea and worry. "Dad, I'm in trouble," she whispered, spitting the bitter taste from her mouth with another sob.

After what seemed an eternity, Olive finally stood with shaking hands and managed to wash out her mouth and clean her swollen eyes. Halfway presentable, she made her way back out to the bar, noting the two in the corner booth had left and saw that her order was waiting on the bar. She paid the man, wondering which coin had been the one to cut her face, and took the brown paper sack with a hurry. Back in the alley, she allowed herself a moment to walk the length of stores. If anything, it was to stall going back, though she told herself she needed the fresh air. What a joke, as if she didn't get enough fresh air on the job.

Flourish and Blott's was dark, books and shelves turned over and ripped apart as if they'd been looted. Ollivander's front window was smashed in and Olive wondered if she should snag a few wands for an emergency, but extinguished the idea when she remembered she couldn't do magic for something like that. And what was the point in grabbing the wands if she wasn't sure they would work for her or not?

The only shop that looked lively enough to get her mind off of things was the Weasley twins joke shop, all bright and colorful on the corner. In one slick movement, she untied her armband and slid it into her pocket. Everyone knew where the Weasley's stood in the war and she couldn't handle another person giving her a disgusted look.

Inside, there were a few parents giving wary glances around at everything and close to a dozen kids running rampant, excited over this or that. One of the red-haired twins noticed her, which one she couldn't say, and offered her a smile, though she could tell his eyes flicked back over to her bruises in curiosity when she'd looked away.

"Anything I can help you with?" he said, noting her lost expression.

"Do you…do you have any sweets that aren't pranks?" she asked. Maybe a lolly would settle her stomach.

The boy grinned. "Do I have any sweets that aren't pranks?" he asked in a perfect salesman voice, leading her toward another section of the store. "The only people interested in the joke stuff are the kids and do you think Georgie and I bank on their allowances? Nah, the money is with the parents and parents like normal things. Here we are."

The wall held such a huge assortment of sweets that Olive didn't know where to look first. There were Bertie Bott's, chocolate frogs, jelly wands, cauldron cakes, each as colorful as the shop around them. The lolly stand boasted over 77 flavors, from green apple to rhubarb and blueberry to cantaloupe. She thanked the boy and dug her free hand into a pocket, grasping some loose change and pulling it out to count. Scabior had taken her money from her as soon as they received it from the Ministry, so he could dictate what she spent it on, but she still had the leftover change from the ornaments she'd bought. Still, with Scabior in such a nasty mood, she played it safe and grabbed two - pineapple for herself and cherry for him, since she knew that was the flavor of cigarettes he smoked. There were just enough sickles for both.

When the twin rang her up, he insisted on giving her a receipt, though she said she didn't need one. When she stepped through the door and noticed a smudge of ink on her finger, she opened up the receipt to see if it was the source. In smudged ink it read:

_Safe house - 82 Diagon Alley - Ask for Elizabeth, destroy after reading_

Bloody fucking fantastic.

Olive wasn't sure if he knew she was muggleborn or if he thought she was in an abusive situation, or even if he knew that both were true. Whichever it was, it was embarrassing, though she was curious to see this safe house and happy to have another reason to stall a few minutes. The address of the Weasley shop read 93 and the one to the right was 95, so she took off across the alley in the opposite direction, pausing for a moment to readjust the sack from Leaky Cauldron, put Scabior's lolly in her pocket, and unwrap her own to try and settle her stomach. About another half-block down, she counted 86, 84, and 80. There in the middle, the building began to quiver, eventually revealing the hidden building to Olive.

 _'Well, that was fun,'_ she thought. There was no point in going in, she knew the Unbreakable Vow would kill her if she tried to run or hide.

Olive's stomach rolled again, knowing it was time to go back. Since she couldn't destroy the paper with magic, she shoved it in her pocket for burning later. With that, she apparated back to camp. Her surroundings had barely stopped spinning before Scabior was on her, gripping the front of her jacket and lifting her onto her toes to be level with him.

"What the fuck took you so long?" he demanded and then, noticing the lolly in her mouth, ripped it from her with an accusing glare. "I tell you to go and get lunch an' you go off spending all my money on yourself?" he asked, danger in every word.

"N-no," she said, eyes wide, "I bought -"

"Liar!" he screamed, tossing her down on the ground. With a yell of fury, he threw her lolly at the base of a nearby tree, where it exploded into a million little pieces. Before she could get another word in, she was screaming out in agony, begging him to stop the _Crucio_ that was coursing through her. It was the longest he'd ever held the curse on her, so long and strong that her body twitched and jerked when he finally dropped his wand.

"I-bought-it-with-my-own-money," she blurted, wanting to get that out before he gave her another round of the curse. When he said nothing, she added, "With the money left from the ornament."

She risked looking up at him and swore she saw black waves of rage rolling off him, but after a few blinks it had disappeared. He'd lowered his wand, though the look of anger remained on his face.

"Grab your lunch and get out of my sight," he said, but his voice was more resigned than earlier. With shaking limbs, she stood, refusing to look at him anymore.

"You can have mine," she muttered, taking a step away from the tent, but stopping when her hand felt into her pockets. "Here," she said, pulling out the lolly, "It's cherry, like your cigarettes."

The air seemed to shift between them and she knew that Scabior would never feel remorse, but right that second was the closest he would ever come.

"And they gave me this on the house," she added, pulling the receipt out and handing it to him, as well, before walking out into the forest. Each step pained her from the curse, but she continued until she found a patch of grass near the base of a tree that was safe from snow. If she had to sleep out there with no lunch or dinner, then so be it, but at least she got to make him feel like shit for it.

Scabior read over the receipt again, then crumpled it in his fist and tossed it into the fire. It was unmarked, so he couldn't be sure where it had come from, but if he ever found out, he would kill them. Nobody tried to hide away what belonged to him.

For hours, he sat and brooded. Night had already fallen by the time he remembered the lolly and pulled it from the wrapper, sticking in in his mouth. Stupid bitch, a pack of cigarettes would have been better. Still, though, when he looked over to the shattered remains of her lolly, spread out in pieces beneath the tree, the corners of his mouth tugged down. He waited for a while longer, but she never came back.

By the time he decided to go get her, night stretched out in every direction, darkness covering everything like black ink. Something about her out in the woods where he couldn't see twisted his stomach the wrong way, making him think maybe she'd run off and was laying out there dead somewhere. He knew that was ridiculous, he only heard her walk so far earlier and when she stopped she was definitely within earshot. Still, he stood with a grimace and headed out in the direction she'd gone. Even with his heightened vision, he could hardly see in the dark that had fallen. Overgrown roots were making the trek near impossible, so he honed his hearing and caught sound of her breathing. He followed his ears and with each step the smell of honeysuckle grew. Maybe a hundred feet out from camp he found her, balled up, fast asleep and shivering on the grass.

With an irritated growl, he scooped her up, Olive barely stirring, and began a slow pace back to the tent, mindful of the roots that had grown up through the ground. The chill ran through him and even inside the tent, it clung to his bones, so he left her in her coat when he laid her in bed, throwing the covers over her. When he crawled into his own bed, he even left his boots on to ward off the cold.

The next day was the worst. The second day of the full moon moodiness was always more violent than the other two. Whatever semi-guilt Olive had managed to bring up in Scabior the night before was gone when the sun rose.

"You're so stupid," he said in the afternoon when she suggested checking an area of forest they'd never gone into before. "If there were someone there, I'd hear 'em, you cunt."

Olive had dubbed these days the middle-moon and there was just no talking to him on a middle-moon. By dinner, they'd progressed to physical fighting, though it was one-sided as Olive couldn't fight back, and as the moon was rising he finally lost it and delivered a series of _Crucios._

Each one grew in intensity until Olive thought she would die from the pain, screaming out, begging him to stop. He didn't.

Olive wasn't sure how long the curses lasted or how long he gave her to rest before delivering the next. She wasn't even sure why he had started cursing her in the first place.

But, she did know that she was laying in her own vomit and that the moon was high in the sky by the time she stopped screaming. She would lay there and twitch while she waited for the next dose, the curses only making her twitch more, no longer screaming out in agony. Everything hurt so bad that she couldn't differentiate between the curse and resting.

When he got bored, he apparated off to vent his steam on some other unfortunate soul.

Late the next day, when the sun was setting, Scabior returned in a vastly better mood. He'd managed to lure a girl away from her friends at the pub with promises of taking her to his flat. Once he had her in an alley and began to rip the coat off of her, she was all for it until his iron fist clamped on her throat. The last bit of life left her eyes as he spilled inside her, then he left the body to be found in the morning and continued the prowl from someone new.

But that next day, back inside the tent, Scabior couldn't find Olive anywhere - not in the kitchen, not in the bathroom, not in the bedroom. And he was irritated and tired. The third day was always the most exhausting. When he stepped back outside with a scowl, the first thing he noticed was that the dumb bitch let the fire go out before he noticed _her._ Still crumpled, still where he left her, staring up at the sky. For a moment his stomach clenched, thinking he'd killed her until he saw her chest rise and fall.

When he walked and stood over her, she stared up at the sky with unfocused eyes.

"Get up, Olive," he said, trying to sound angry with her.

No answer.

"I said get _up._ "

Nothing.

After a few more prompts, she finally moved her eyes to his, but it was like there was nobody there. She said nothing, giving only the occasional twitch.

The rest of the evening was spent in the tent, after he'd managed to get her inside and cleaned up. The hours passed while she stared up at the ceiling, body jerking every few minutes while Scabior laid next to her and watched, hoping she would snap out of it.


	10. Chapter 10

_EDITED: 02/21/2015_

Two days had passed and still Olive wasn't back to normal. Greyback hadn't returned yet and Scabior hoped it was because his men had been rounded up, so they wouldn't have to deal with him anymore. Which would be fortunate because if Olive was damaged beyond repair, he didn't need anyone finding out about it. If word got back to the Dark Lord that his best chance at finding Potter was rendered incompetent at his hand, well, he'd be on the run like the rest of the mudbloods.

Olive walked into the kitchen where Scabior sat. She'd been doing that now - walking. Still, she hadn't spoken, hadn't eaten. Yesterday, in a fit of desperation, Scabior had gone to some muggle store and bought her a lolly in each flavor they had, hoping to snap her out of it. Nine still laid on the table in front of him, the tenth in his mouth now. Olive wasn't there for a lolly, though. Knowing what she came for, he lit her a smoke and handed it over.

The first time she'd reached out for one of his cigarettes, it nearly threw him into a shock. She offered no words, no explanation at all. Olive had just taken to smoking and nothing else. She took the seat across from him, cigarette curled in her fingers, staring off into the space behind his shoulder.

"There's people outside."

Scabior's eyes nearly popped from his head, doing a double-take at the sound of her voice. Did he imagine it? She looked like she did before, eyes far off in the distance, the corners of her lips giving a small jerk.

"What?" It was all he could muster, eyes raking over her in disbelief.

Olive looked at him - _really_ looked at him - and put a finger to her ear, then laid it across her lips, the cigarette smoke trailing up into her golden hair. Scabior trained his ears, stretching his hearing outside the tent. There, yes, he heard it - the muffled whispers and crunching steps. At least two of them, maybe fifty feet out from camp. They'd found the tent and were debating amongst themselves on whether to approach.

"How did you hear them?" he whispered, not wanting the others to overhear.

Olive only twitched in reply, taking another long drag off her cigarette. The people were close enough for her to hear, he knew, but she would have to of been concentrating. Even Scabior hadn't heard, though he was preoccupied with his thoughts. When Olive stood and stepped back to the bedroom, he noticed she'd put on her boots already. By the time she came back with her wand, she was finishing the last few puffs of her smoke and handed him her red armband. Once he tied it on her, still astonished that Olive was capable of speaking, he closed his eyes and honed his hearing again.

Outside the people grew closer - they were going to approach, hoping to make friends. They'd run into trouble a few days ago, it seemed. Scabior sat still, concentrating on the snow crunching beneath their feet, bringing them closer and closer. When he opened his eyes, Olive was tugging at his upper arm, tying on his armband which was filthy compared to her own. The footsteps were right outside now, right in front of the tent, and he could practically feel them looking at each other, debating on entering. Olive snubbed out her cigarette on the table and held up seven fingers, dirt packed beneath her nails.

Seven? He threw her a confused look, not daring to make a noise with the others so close. Again, she only offered a twitch in reply. Scabior caught a new scent, somehow familiar, and turned to see a woman's hand grasping the tent flap, about to take the plunge and pull it back. He'd never seen Olive move so quickly.

In the blink of an eye, she was outside, the woman screaming as they wrestled on the snow. The other footsteps began running, only one pair of feet, and Scabior snapped from his shock and shot from the tent, hurtling Olive and the woman. The man - he'd seen the man before. His eyes shot back to Olive to see she was struggling with Henrietta Walrich.

_Number Seven._

The man was dashing through the trees. Scabior gave another glance back to Olive, seeing she'd disarmed Walrich, who was trying to claw at her face. Scabior kicked the woman's wand a good ten feet away and darted off after the man. It wasn't hard to find him. The man breathed like his lungs were giving out, little huffs and squeaks wheezing from him while he ran. They played cat and mouse among the trees for a few minutes, Scabior grunting in dismay when he realized he'd actually broken a sweat, but he finally bagged him. When the man started pleading for his life, Scabior silenced him with the flick of his wand and began dragging him back to camp.

 _"- all your fault, it's all your fault,"_ he heard Olive muttering, accompanied by a rhythmic thumping noise. Scabior picked up his step, dread filling him. He shouldn't have let her come out, she was too fragile, this would be too much for her. He was just so caught up in her actually speaking and the people outside that he hadn't thought. The man was kicking his legs again and Scabior jerked him harder, a bad feeling starting to fill his chest. They couldn't afford Olive to be broken any more than she was, they'd already lost Potter and had no new plan, they had little money, little food, and he just couldn't take care of her if she turned off completely. A mercy killing was not how he envisioned murdering her and it soured his stomach to think of it. When he finally stepped from the thick of the trees and entered camp, he wasn't prepared for what he saw.

The woman's face was a mess of blood. Olive had torn clumps of Walrich's hair out with her bare hands and now had her around the neck, beating her head off the ground while she muttered under her breath. Her eyes were alive for the first time in days, the most alive thing about her, glowing in the snow, pure fury and anger, though her mouth was twisted into a smirk. The woman was sobbing, trying to pry Olive's hands from her throat with weakened arms. It reminded him of all the times he'd laid hands on Olive and wondered if he looked this crazy when he did.

"Olive!" he said, dropping the man's legs, "Olive, stop, you're going to kill her!"

Blood splattered the snow for a good five feet around them. It was a wonder the woman wasn't dead yet. But, Olive didn't listen, intent on beating their 20,000 galleons to death with her bare hands.

 _"Olive!"_ he screamed, running over and grabbing her around the waist, trying to pull her away. Olive screamed, losing her grip on the woman's neck, and lunged out of his arms to hit the woman with her already bloody fists.

 _"Olive!_ Stop, that's an _order!'_ he said, grabbing and pulling her away. She sobered and he felt another twitch run through her, then she grew still. They stood over the woman and looked down at Olive's handiwork. Each breath the woman drew was a deep gurgle and she'd long since stopped moving.

"Merlin's fucking beard," Scabior said, turning Olive around and taking her face in his hands, worried eyes looking her over, inspecting each splotch of blood to make sure it wasn't her own. When he was satisfied, he moved onto her hands. "You've gone fuckin' insane," he added, watching Olive's fingers twitch in his hands. The only visible damage were the split knuckles, which were her doing. It was a good thing, too - had the woman gotten a hit in on Olive, Scabior might have beat that 20,000 galleons to death himself. Olive was staring at him, those green eyes blank of all emotion again.

"It's her fault," she said, no expression whatsoever. Whether she meant it was the woman's fault for getting caught or for Scabior taking out his anger on Olive the other day, he wasn't sure. All he knew was that he hoped _his_ Olive came back to him because this one was starting to really fucking worry him.

"Bag her," Olive said in his silence, as if there was nothing amiss, "and let's go cash in." As worried as he was about getting his Olive back, he couldn't help the grin that crossed his face. He scooped her face into his hands, landing his lips on her forehead. When he pulled away, there was a ghost of a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. In the months they'd spent together, disguised as Booke and not, Scabior had only seen Olive smile once, when Fenrir was poking fun at him. At least now he could claim the slight curve of her lips as his own doing, but it worried him further. _His_ Olive would have never smiled. His Olive was angry, frightened, bitter. This Olive had something wrong with her.

The Ministry proved to be an ordeal. First, the man Scabior caught, who ended up being Walrich's brother, had struggled the entire way, kicking and screaming. Scabior finally had enough and drove his elbow into the man's temple, rendering him unconscious. Then after they got there, the Ministry gave them lip about Walrich's face, saying it could be anyone. Olive had beaten the poor woman unrecognizable. It was lucky she was a half-blood or Olive would have broken her Vow. They had to wait on Healers to arrive, bring down some of the swelling, and confirm Walrich's identity. The whole time, Olive just stared at the woman with no expression, body giving a small jerk here and there.

When everything was said and done, the Ministry contacted Gringotts and had them transfer the money to Scabior's vault, since they didn't give coin in person if the reward was over 3,000 galleons. Olive didn't have her own vault yet and so they'd put it all in Scabior's. Having never seen that much money in real life, let alone in his own vault, he nearly dragged Olive to the bank in his excitement. He looked at her the whole ride down into Gringotts, her far off gaze, and was even looking at her when they opened his vault, so the first glimmer of gold he saw was reflected in her blank eyes. They were there for ages. Scabior was stuffing his pockets full, laughing like a maniac, making coin angels in the large pile of gold. He looked up to see the goblin was displeased, arms crossed, and then looked to Olive leaning against the door frame with that half-smile back on her lips.

"Lovely, come here," he said, loving the clink of gold when he patted the spot next to him. She did as she was told, taking two strides and plopping down where he said, gold coins scattering across the floor. Scabior watched as she took a coin and turned it over in her fingers, the gold reflecting in her eyes.

"10,000 are for you," he said, cupping a handful of gold and sliding them into the breast pocket of her coat. The corner of her mouth tugged up just the tiniest bit and it made Scabior grin even wider. She could be fixed. His Olive would come back, he knew it. By the time they left, they were so weighed down with gold that it was a wonder they could apparate.

Back in the tent, it was cause for celebration. Well, in Scabior's mind at least. Olive had stood outside, looking down on the blood-stained snow until he had come out to retrieve her, two Firewhiskys in hand.

"I can drink and smoke 'til the day I die," Scabior said with pride once they were back in at the kitchen table. "And when we catch Potter, we'll have houses all over the world."

Olive had begun pulling the gold from her pockets, making little stacks ten coins high across the table. Two drinks later, she was still going, the supply in her pockets seeming endless. He noticed she didn't twitch so badly with liquor in her and was glad for it.

Without warning, she stood and rounded the table, reaching into his breast pocket for a cigarette. When she turned away to grab the candle and light it, his arms wrapped around her waist, pulling her onto his knee with her legs between his. He took the cigarette from her, putting it between his lips and placing the fire of his own lit smoke to the tip of hers. After a few short puffs, the fire had spread to light her cigarette and he handed it back with a grin.

"I thought you said these things were disgusting," he teased, heat creeping up his neck from the liquor.

"They make the metallic taste in my mouth go away."

Scabior didn't know what she meant and hardly cared. The scent of honeysuckle was attacking him and the arm around her waist tightened, drawing her nearer so he could smell it on her hair.

"We could have anything," he said into her neck, drunk off the money and drink, "What do you want more than anything in the world?" Scabior snubbed his cigarette out on the table, his now free hand snaking up to rest on her throat. When she spoke, the vibrations ran down his fingers.

"I want to murder you."

Scabior let out a huff of breath, closing his eyes and grinning into her hair. "I knew my Olive was in there somewhere," he said, not hiding his relief. He felt her turn her head and he looked up, meeting her eyes. Only for a moment, though, before his eyes slid to the curve of her lips, the corners tugged as high as they'd been all day. "You're fuckin' beautiful when you smile, you know that?" he added, fingers moving from her throat to the corner of her mouth, tracing along her lower lip. Olive said nothing. She said nothing when he ran his hand down to the top buttons of her shirt, or when he laid her on the table, or when he took her nipple between his lips. She only stared at him.

Olive even seemed amused a few times, that half-smile returning - when he had trouble unbuttoning her tight jeans, when she held his discolored stripe of hair in her fingers, when he started fucking her so hard that the damn plates fell and shattered again.

When they were done, they laid naked, side by side on the top of the table. They each had a lolly in their mouth and Scabior's arm was draped over his face, smelling the traces of her on his skin.

"You broke me," she said out of nowhere, pausing to suck on the lolly before pulling it from her mouth. "And I'll break you, too."

Scabior rolled onto his side, leaning over to kiss the smile on the corner of her mouth. He never kissed on the lips, but he had to fight the urge this time. Instead, he let their noses slide along each other, so when he spoke his lips danced across her mouth. "I'm not done breaking you yet," he said, smelling the grape on her breath each time the hot air crossed his lips.

He fucked her four more times. When Greyback arrived outside with a sharp crack, they had already made their way into the bath, Olive's legs draped over the side between the cigarettes and their second bottle of Firewhisky. Greyback asked to use the loo and Scabior rolled his eyes, pulling Olive's legs into the tub to cover himself and snapping at her to cover her tits, which she did with her free arm. The other arm was perched on the side of the tub, fingers curled around a cigarette.

"Couldn't you piss outside?" Scabior asked, annoyed that the man had not only returned, but interrupted his fuck fest. He shot a look at Olive when the werewolf pulled his cock from his pants, making sure she wasn't looking. She wasn't. Her attention was on the smoke rolling from her cigarette, watching it curl up into the air. Her eyes had gone far off again.

"What, like a bloody animal?" Fenrir joked, laugh deep and throaty. If he was surprised to see the two of them in the tub, it didn't show, though Scabior felt fury pool in his chest when Greyback's eyes lingered too long on Olive. "Still waitin' on one more of the men to show up," he continued, shaking himself off and zipping his trousers. Scabior only grunted in annoyance, refusing to indulge in small talk when he had Olive naked in front of him. The werewolf got the message, it seemed, and disappeared elsewhere in the tent. He could hear Greyback mutter a few choice words when he noticed the gold coins scattered across the kitchen floor.

Now that they were alone again, Scabior snatched up the bottle and gave her a dark look as he took a swig. "Now, Olive, that won't do," he said, reaching over and jerking her arm away from her chest so he could look at her lovely tits. "Come here and let me have a better look."

Olive did as she was told and Scabior wondered if he liked this version of her better. No, _definitely_ not. Old Olive fought with him, gave him nasty looks, said terrible things he could beat her for. Though, new Olive was on top of him, knees on either side of his legs with her tits bare in front of him and he decided this Olive had her perks, too. Her nipples were beginning to bruise from his biting earlier and he resisted the urge to do it again. Instead, he twisted one between his fingers, pulling and forcing her down closer to him. The appearance of the werewolf had soured his mood and he wanted to make one thing clear to her. He didn't care if Greyback overheard him, though he doubted he would as he could hear the wolf muttering to himself about the gold, pocketing what he thought they wouldn't notice.

"Look at me, Olive," he said in a quiet tone, but there was danger laced in each word. She must have noticed the change in his voice because when she looked up, the half-smile was gone. "Tell me, lovely," he said, free hand pushing her hair back from her face and playing with the wet ends, which had grown several inches since the first day he saw her, "Whose command did the Dark Lord leave you under?" He watched her brow tuck in the slightest way. It reminded him of when he had her under the _Imperio._

"You," she said, voice sounding weak. Somewhere in there, she knew he was angry.

"That's right, sweetling. And I could command you to do anything I wanted, couldn't I?" He tugged her nipple tight and something flashed behind her eyes. Scabior hoped it was fear. He wanted his Olive back, no matter how compliant this one was.

"Yes," she said, gaze shifting to over his shoulder.

"Ah, ah," he chided, "I told you to look at me." When she did, he continued. "Now, out of all the things I could command you to do, I've not been unfair." Olive's body gave a small jerk in protest, the first twitch she'd had in hours. "I didn't order you to fuck me, did I?" he asked, free hand grasping her chin while his other pulled her nipple taut. A whimper danced out with her breath, some undefinable half-noise that Scabior loved. Those were the sounds of his Olive. "But, you did because you're a good girl."

Olive nodded, but he could tell she was fighting the urge to look away again.

"And when you're bad, I can make you do whatever I want anyway. But, you're smart, aren't you, Olive?" He could smell the liquor on her breath and knew she had to smell it on his, too. He was drunker than he'd been in a long while. Olive finally nodded, eyes boring into him. His hand snaked around the back of her neck, pulling her in close so he could smell the honeysuckle in her hair. "So, who really owns you, Olive?" he threatened in her ear, "Who owns that cunt between your legs?" Her body gave another jerk and he grinned into her hair.

"You do," she said, the words quiet, mixed with a huff of breath.

"Good girl." He released her neck, hand drifting back down to her chin. "I don't like him," he said, knowing she would understand he meant Greyback. "And I don't like that you two are pals. I don't like people lookin' at my toys. And I know you don't want me to make you to show him who you belong to, do you? 'Cause that would be very embarrassing for you, Olive. Understand?"

She nodded, but he gripped her chin tighter.

"Tell me you understand."

"I understand," she said, looking away again. He let it slide this time.

"Good. Now go an' get in bed, little kitten. We've got a wolf tryin' to run off with our gold that I've got to deal with."

The next morning, Scabior woke with numb fingers. Olive's back was pressed to his chest, one of his arms under her neck and wrapped around her chest, the other draped over her waist. Keeping Greyback's paws off of her was worth the numbness.

The werewolf had already stirred from Olive's bed and was lacing his boots. He glanced up, looking Olive up and down before even noticing Scabior was awake.

"The fuck are you doin'?" Scabior said, voice full of sleep. He regretted his decision to pull off Olive's pajama bottoms in the middle of the night when he realized most of the blankets were off her now, exposing her cotton underwear.

"We're movin' camp today," Greyback said, "I'm goin' to scout for sites. They think there's a pirate radio operatin' out in Fleet Forest. We was meant to leave last night, but you two was busy."

Scabior grinned, nuzzling his face in Olive's neck. When he looked up, Greyback's mouth was clamped shut. "We'll be here when you get back," Scabior added with a smirk, stretching out and enjoying the feel of Olive pressed against him. Greyback stood and grunted in reply, at least having the decency to walk outside and apparate to keep from waking Olive. Scabior knew the werewolf was fuming over them finding Walrich first and he didn't like the way he'd been looking at Olive lately.

But, with the werewolf gone, Scabior pulled the covers all the way back, fingers tracing the curve of Olive's hips. She shuddered and stirred, rolling toward him with a funny look on her face and muttering about Christmas ornaments before laying her head down on his arm and falling back into sleep. It had to be early, still dark out, because Scabior was used to little sleep from the nightmares and even _he_ was still exhausted.

The nightmares.

He hadn't had one last night - the dream he'd had was quite pleasant actually. There had been thousands of puppet strings falling from his fingers to control Olive, who knelt beneath him with his cock in her eager mouth. He thought Greyback watched from the corner with a slit throat, but that may have been an afterthought.

Usually, he woke with a start when the Dementors started sucking out his soul or when Lysia stabbed him in the chest.

_Lysia._

He thought of Lysia's lips, but his free fingers snuck up to trace Olive's. At least Olive told him she would try and kill him. Hatred burned inside him for a moment, just the thought of Lysia enough to make him grit his teeth. _Dead, dead, she's dead, focus on Olive instead._ He bet Olive's tongue tasted better. Her words were already delicious enough, the way she admitted he owned her with no fight. He needed to hear it again. Thinking about it made him grow hard, his dick pressing through his bottoms into Olive's belly.

He shifted her onto her back and his free hand abandoned her lips, finding the space between her thighs instead. The cotton of her panties was warm and he decided then he would wait for her to wake before diving beneath. Instead, he traced patterns into the fabric, light at first and then harder when she made a humming noise. By the time her eyes fluttered open, the cotton had grown moist under his fingers.

"Mornin', love," he said with a grin, pressing his lips against her earlobe. His fingers pressed deeper into her panties and she gasped, bottom lip giving a quick quiver. "Do you remember what we talked about last night?"

Olive didn't answer, trying to blink the sleep from her eyes and comprehend what was going on.

"Olive, do you remember?" he repeated, digging his fingers roughly into the cotton.

"Yes," she squeaked, clenching her thighs shut in response. Scabior gave her a dark look and sat up, prying her legs apart by taking the knee closest to him and drawing it to his chest.

"Say it again," he said, pulling her panties to the side and exposing her to the cool air. He ran a finger along her. "Tell me who this belongs to."

She twitched, looking at him with fear behind her eyes. "You," she said, voice weak from sleep. He traced her crease, cocking his head to the side as he looked down on her.

"Say the whole thing, Olive."

"It belongs to you. You own it," she said, legs twitching. He could tell she was fighting the urge to try and snap them shut again, so he barely dipped his fingers inside her. Olive lost her reserve and tried to break her legs free, closing them the best she could. He ripped them apart without a word, shifting to pin her free knee down with his leg.

"But what is _this?"_ he said, wriggling his fingers at her opening, a smirk dominating his face as he was dominating her. "Say it. Say it like we said it last night."

Olive swallowed, knee beginning to tremble in his arms. Her shoulders gave another twitch.

"You own the cunt between my legs," she said in a resigned voice, looking away in embarrassment. The half-smile never made an appearance, but the expression she gave when he shoved three fingers inside of her more than made up for it. She gasped, her lips parted and eyes glossy. It was only a few minutes before he pulled his slick fingers from her and started fucking her. She never fought or struggled, but he pinned down her wrists anyway, reveling in the control he held over her. Each thrust was an act of violence, her cries a mixture of pleasure and pain. When she came, she gave such a violent shudder that Scabior thought she'd started sobbing.

Later, when they were getting dressed, Scabior told her Greyback would return soon and they were moving camp, watching her like a hawk the entire time for any hint that she may be betraying him. He did not like her around Greyback and was beginning to think the werewolf was conspiring against him, if not both of them. She'd said nothing, though, keeping her back to him while she buttoned her shirt. He crossed the room and laid his hands on her shoulders, running his nose along the hair behind her ear.

"Remember what we talked about last night," he warned.

"I belong to you," she said for the umpteenth time, Scabior having made her say it over and over while he fucked her. "And I will until you kill me."

Scabior bent, running his lips along her jaw. "You're turnin' out to be the perfect girl," he said, turning her to kiss the hollow of her throat before heading toward the kitchen.

He didn't see her fists clench.


	11. Chapter 11

_EDITED: 02/21/2015_

After they got to Fleet Forest and were settled into camp, the three of them sat for hours near a rusted radio that Greyback had brought with him. Olive was careful not to look at Fenrir. Scabior had her in his lap again and she occupied herself with the lighter chunk of his hair. It was the only part of him she could stand to look at.

"What happened?" she muttered, mindful of Greyback who was fretting over the radio, trying to charm it to scan. The metallic taste was flooding her mouth again and was making her feel nauseous. Like the ringing in her ears, it had been a constant companion since he'd tortured her and left her out in the cold that night. To chase the taste away, she grabbed another cigarette from his shirt pocket.

"My brother got cross with me for playin' with his toys. Threw my Mum's ash tray and split my head open. Never grew back the same."

"Your brother sounds mean," she said, dropping the hair from between her fingers to light her cigarette. She wished his brother would have thrown the ash tray a little harder and killed him. Now all the hard work was left to her.

"We all are," he said, giving her a dark look and stealing the cigarette from her fingers to take a pull, then he gave it back.

The ringing took over her ears, pounding into her head while she gazed at the tent wall. But, it wasn't the wall she saw. She saw Walrich's face deforming beneath her, the blood flying, the crack of the woman's teeth. Over and over and over she'd pummeled her fists into the woman's head, Olive's breathing as rhythmic as the hits, never once losing breath. The woman was sobbing, face so beaten and bloodied that it looked as if her skin had been peeled off. There was a sick noise and Olive smirked, watching the way Walrich moaned at her broken nose. Blood was everywhere, coating the woman's face, slicked on Olive's fists, stained into their clothes and the snow. It wasn't hard to pretend the woman was Scabior. _It's all your fault, it's all your fault._ Olive's hands wrung around the woman's throat, though it was Scabior's to her, and she began beating her head into the ground, feeling herself grow crazed with each thud, smirk widening with every -

"Olive."

She blinked, looking at Scabior, who had grown quite used to her zoning out. He nodded his head toward Greyback, who was giving her a funny look.

"You alright?" the werewolf asked. He didn't know about the hours of _Crucios._ It was her secret with Scabior. He wanted no one to know he'd fucked up the best chance at finding Potter and she wanted no one to know how weak she'd been. Olive nodded to Greyback, but said nothing. "This one was converted from a muggle radio," he continued, swatting the radio away in annoyance, "Can't get the damn thing to work, will ya look at it?" She looked at Scabior, who nodded.

 _'It's all pretend,'_ she thought, fighting the dark look that threatened to assault him. _'You don't own me.'_ At that, the corners of her mouth twitched upward and she stood from his lap, rounding the table to see what Fenrir's issue was with the radio. It took a lot of strength not to smile when she did, but her mouth twitched again, begging to grow. Olive reached down and flicked on the power switch.

"Muggles have switches to turn things on and off," she explained, still fighting off the urge to grin. If Scabior saw her smile at Greyback, he would make her do Merlin-knows-what and probably would command her to cut ties from the werewolf. And she _needed_ the werewolf. Maybe she couldn't kill Scabior, but Fenrir could. Whatever he wanted, she would give him. Gold, sex, whatever it took. She needed Scabior dead.

It would be tricky. There was no way to get him alone and approach without Scabior lurking. A plan had already been formulating in her head. She just needed parchment and a quill. If she could escape him long enough to fake a shower, she could scribble a quick note to Greyback. Scabior would never hear the quill scratching on the paper over the noise of the shower and no words were needed to hand the note over to Fenrir. But, if Scabior found her out, if he commanded her to not interact with Fenrir, then all hope of that plan was lost. It would kill her if she tried.

When she sat back in Scabior's lap, he shifted to dig in his pocket.

"Almost forgot," he said, pulling out a silver hoop that matched the one in his ear. It wasn't until then that she realized they belonged to her - the hoop earrings her father had gotten her for her 17th birthday. Sickness rolled in her stomach and she drew a long drag off the cigarette, trying and failing to stop the jerk that ran through her body. When he pulled her close to run the hoop through her ear, her eyes glued to his neck. Olive was never good at anatomy, but she knew in there somewhere was an artery and she could see the top of his knife sticking out of his boot.

"There we go," he said, pulling back to look at his handiwork. Olive tore her eyes away with a blink, the corners of her mouth tugging up again. Scabior seemed to like when her lips did that. His hand found her cheek, thumb resting on the corner of her mouth, eyes absorbing the sight of her lips. Olive wondered if he meant it when he said she was beautiful when she smiled. She wondered if he would think it as beautiful when it was one of the last things he ever saw.

"Got 'em, got 'em!" Greyback said, clutching the radio to his ear, not realizing there was a volume knob or even what a volume knob did. "That's them," he said with a grin, "Callin' 'emselves the Potter Pirates. These radio stations are startin' to pop up everywhere. Ministry's wantin' us to make an example of 'em."

Scabior finally took his eyes from Olive's lips, only catching the last half of what Greyback had said. "That's great and all," Scabior started, "But how 'er we supposed to find 'em? Anybody can 'ear 'em, doesn't mean they're near."

Greyback grinned the most ferocious grin Olive had ever seen and she fought back the urge to shudder at his wolfish features.

_"…live tonight from Fleet Forest, your refugees from among the trees…"_

"Idiots," muttered Olive, hiding the cringe when Scabior's hand rested in the small of her back.

"They don't think nobody at the Ministry knows about 'em," Greyback said, teeth gleaming in the low light of the candle. "None of 'em do. There's Potter Pirates, The Mad Mudbloods, Potter Watch, the Order's Others. Prob'ly twenty of 'em and they're bein' stupid about it because they think they's the only ones listenin'."

"Let's go, then," Scabior said, tapping Olive's legs so she would stand. "If we're gonna bag 'em, bag 'em while they're broadcastin'. Then everyone will get the message loud an' clear."

When Olive stood, her knees shook from the soreness of what Scabior had done to her the past two days. Though, it wasn't as bad as the first few times he'd violated her. When she let him do it, he was less violent, didn't bother to beat her around when he could just pin her down. It didn't feel as bad, either, but she either imagined murdering him while he was thrusting into her or she pretended he was someone else - a stranger or once even Draco. Except for earlier that morning, when he'd woken her with his touch and she already had that warm feeling building inside her. There was no pretending that morning. It was Scabior. Scabior who ran his fingers inside her, Scabior who made her say filthy words, Scabior she cried out for. _Scabior who owned the cunt between her legs._

If not for killing her father, if not for beating her bloody, if not for torturing her until she wasn't right in the head, she would see him dead for that morning.

But, she already knew he had to die. It was what she'd set out to do and Olive somehow got off the track, distracted, never finished the job. When she'd laid out in the cold in her own vomit, staring up at the full moon overhead, eyes drifting through the stars, she realized this was her fault. She should have taken her father and run at the beginning of summer, but she didn't. She should have taken her father and run when Scabior arrived in the park, but she didn't. She should have taken her father's body and run after she killed the Booke brothers, but she didn't. She ran to Scabior instead. He had to die, it was what she set out to do and all of this suffering wouldn't be for naught if she could accomplish it.

A lot of things died in her that night out in the snow - her will to find happiness, her will to run, her will to fight back. But, other things grew until they consumed her - hatred, bitterness, fear. She had to conceal them. If she wanted to see him dead, she knew what she had to do. Olive had to give him what he wanted. Only after he relaxed would he loosen the leash. He would mistake his control and her loyalty. And that would be the death of him.

When the three were walking out through the cool air, Olive stretched and rolled her neck. It was time to plant a seed in Scabior's mind.

"I miss having a real bed," she muttered, stopping to arch her back and tipping her head backwards, hair trailing down her shoulders. Her spine popped twice, the two loud cracks seeming louder than anything else around them. The comment wouldn't seem out of place. The beds in the tents were more comparable to straw sacks and Snatchers constantly complained of aches and pains. She felt Scabior's hand find her hip, sliding down into the back pocket of her jeans as they walked side by side. Bait taken.

Olive knew Scabior now like the back of her hand. The mention of a bed sent his mind to only one place and her arched back served to aid him with a visual. And she knew he would never touch her with Greyback nearby. No - tonight, tomorrow, the night after that at the latest - he would fold and take her somewhere because Olive was clever enough to know he would never ask Greyback to leave. She'd mentioned a real bed and he would deliver, the idea now in his head, brain clicking, thinking how a real bed would feel nice, how they could have privacy to do the things he wanted. He would think it was all his idea.

It may have seemed a ridiculous plot all for some parchment and a quill, but she was willing to do what it took. There wasn't a quill or ink to be found in their tent and the only parchment available were the maps and the book her father had given her as a child, which Scabior was still holding hostage from her. Both were out of the question.

Before, Olive would have never gone through the trouble - she would have been sloppy and made some stupid mistake that got her a black eye. Now she was willing to go far out of the way to get what she needed. The farther out she went, the less she looked to blame. She needed him dead, but first she needed parchment and a quill, as ridiculous as that sounded.

When the three of them went to separate, as they had before when they first came across Walrich, Scabior nuzzled his face in her hair and nipped her neck before leaving. Olive knew what he was doing. Greyback was watching and Scabior had gotten it into his head that the werewolf wanted her for himself.

The woods were all dark, all trees, all the same. It was even more dreadful in the darkness by herself, but she supposed her own company was better than Scabior's. And Greyback's company was out of the question.

How long she walked, she couldn't be sure. The cold was beginning to make her nose numb and her ears were ringing so loudly that she couldn't even hear her own footsteps. If she was on track for their target, she would walk right into their camp without hearing them first. Everything in her vision spun and she drew a breath, trying to steady herself.

Things got worse.

The ringing took over her head, vibrations pounding the sides of her skull, pushing the backs of her eyelids. The world tilted before her eyes, ground rushing up to meet her face. Too much, she'd done too much in the past few days. The metallic taste flooded her mouth and she tried to bite it back, wishing she'd thought to grab a cigarette. Everything convulsed once and then a second time, each reminding her of the agony of being beneath Scabior's wand that night in the snow. Olive tried to get up, but she was shaking too much and so she crawled on hands and knees, feeling out for something to grab on to and pull herself up.

The taste in her mouth gave her a rush of nausea and there was no holding it back this time. She heaved, spilling the contents of her stomach onto the dirt before her. Olive didn't hear them apparate, only the ringing in her skull, but she felt hands pull her up from the ground into a sitting position, someone pressed against her back, arms wound around her to keep her steady. After she blinked a few times, she could sort of make out Greyback's legs standing across from her, but her vision was dancing and she closed her eyes.

"I'll take her back," she heard Greyback say, his voice sounding warped, bursting through the ringing noise. Olive shook her head wide from side to side, feeling drunk again. In her disorientation, she still knew Scabior would think something was going on if Greyback took her to the tent. He was probably thinking something was up already, just because the werewolf offered.

"I want Dreagan," she managed, her words sounding distorted and his first name foreign to her tongue. A voice was shushing in her ear, then the other two exchanged words, though Olive couldn't make them out. The world began to dance before her eyes and it wasn't until the arms tightened around her that she realized she was convulsing again.

When she next became aware of her surroundings, she was being carried. A wave of nausea rolled over her and she bit her tongue to keep the bile down. "Cigarette," she muttered, head pounding.

The _next_ thing she was aware of, she was in the tent, bent over the toilet puking again. Someone was holding her hair back and when she laid her cheek on the cool seat, she saw Scabior's dagger poking out the top of his boot next to her.

Each time her body jerked, it shook her to her core, even her bones aching in protest. The knife danced in and out of her vision and she imagined grabbing it and sinking it into his throat for doing this to her.

"It's alright, lovely," he said, so gentle and out of character that another shudder ran through her body. It took a few minutes, but he managed to get her standing on shaking legs and walk her over to the sink. Olive saw herself in the mirror, the sheen of sweat on her forehead, the greenish hue her skin had taken, the way her shoulders jerked despite trying to hold them still. In the reflection, she watched Scabior run the taps. The mirror was the last thing on his mind and so she just looked at him while he was unaware.

"Here," he said, raising wet hands to her brow and slicking back the loose strands of hair from her face. Olive didn't like the way his mouth tugged down and she'd never seen a look like that behind his eyes. Scabior was supposed to be a hard, cruel man. His look was laced with worry and it made her uncomfortable.

"Don't worry," she croaked, cupping her hands under the water and bringing them to her mouth before she continued, "I won't die yet. You'll still get to do that."

It was even worse when his frown deepened. He'd led her to the bedroom without another word and helped her into their bed, not bothering to change her from the dirt-ridden clothes she wore. Olive looked over at him when he sat on the edge of the bed, but he was facing away. She could tell his shoulders were tense, even hidden behind his dark hair.

"What happened?" he asked, not turning around to look at her. Olive didn't like that he was acting so strange.

"You tortured me too long," she said, blunt as always, and she tried to turn onto her side. The silence fell between them for a few moments too long.

"I know."

He never looked at her, never shifted in the slightest. Olive wondered if he'd even said it or if her brain was going wonky again.

"It was too much after yesterday and this morning," she continued, staring daggers into the back of his head. The seeds she planted earlier about comfy beds were probably scattered away when she had her fit in the woods. Best salvage what she could. Make him think of sex. She would do anything he wanted as long as she got to sneak a quill and parchment out of it. At least then there was a reason other than pure terror and violence.

Scabior never answered.

"Go get the radio," she finally said, unable to handle the tense silence. "And let's listen for Greyback to bust them." Olive watched him nod and stalk into the next room without even a glance her way. A bad feeling was flooding her stomach. She needed to gain his trust and she couldn't even get him to look at her. If he lost it on her and got violent, her body wouldn't be able to handle it.

When he came back in, he stood at the edge of the bed, arm extended toward her with the radio in hand. His eyes were on the tent wall behind her and so she just stared at him, not reaching out to take it.

"Here," he said, giving the radio a little shake. Still, she just looked at him. Finally his eyes darted to her, an annoyed look crossing his face. "Take it!"

"What did I do wrong?" she asked, eyes boring into him. "Let me fix it before you lash out." And let him think she's groveling, let him think she fears him.

Scabior's expression never moved. He just stared at her, some foreign emotion behind his eyes, and then slid onto the bed next to her. He laid on his back, staring at the canvas ceiling.

"You didn't do anything wrong."

Olive looked at him for a while, then propped herself up and grabbed the radio from his hands. Scabior's fingers opened to let her take it, but he otherwise made no movements. After a few moments of tinkering with the knobs, sound drifted between them. The radio men were still speaking, announcing the latest fatalities in the war. Greyback hadn't reached them yet, then.

"What happened?" Olive said, asking the question this time. She wasn't sure he was going to answer, several seconds dragging before he opened his mouth.

"I just heard you puking," he said, eyes never moving from the tent above, "Greyback did, too. We got there at the same time."

Olive played with the volume of the radio, turning it down a little. With the Potter Pirates broadcasting, Scabior talking, and her ears ringing, it was too much for her head to handle.

"And then what?" she prompted, realizing he wasn't going to continue.

Scabior drew a breath. "That filthy wolf said he'd bring you back. I wasn't about to let that happen." Olive noticed he said nothing about her asking for him over Greyback. "I carried you back. You 'bout smoked all my cigarettes on the way."

Olive only remembered the one cigarette, but she didn't doubt it. The nausea was overwhelming and the cherry smoke was the only thing that got the taste out of her mouth.

"Sorry," she said. The words hung between them, forgiveness some foreign concept that neither understood. Olive wasn't really sorry, but could think of nothing else to say.

"Don't say you're sorry," he spat, voice disgusted.

Olive looked at him long and hard, but he was far too stubborn to look away from the ceiling. His lips twisted down like he had a bitter taste in his mouth.

"What else do you want me to say?" she said, beginning to lose her cool. Heat ran into her cheeks while her brow tucked. "I smoked all your cigarettes, Merlin's fucking beard, I'll buy you another pack if that's what you want, what else could you want me to do?"

"I want you to go back to fucking normal," he said, teeth clenched and face contorting in rage. He had nearly looked at her, but he managed not to.

 _"Why?"_ she demanded, word ringing through the silence that followed. Fuck her plan, fuck her reserve, her anger was growing and gnawing the inside of her wanting out. "It's not fun anymore when I let you win, is it?"

If looks could kill, Olive would have been dead that second. Scabior's face seemed to take an eternity to turn, livid hatred burning behind every cell of his being.

"You killed that part of me," she said, body jerking as if on cue, "It's gone, it's dead and you aren't getting it back."

Scabior moved, fast as lightening, and snatched up her chin so tight she thought he was breaking her jaw. His face was twisted in a snarl, Olive's mirroring his own, their eyes on fire in a locked showdown.

"Aren't I?" he said, then shoved her head away and left the bed, stalking outside into the cool air.

It frightened her, the way he looked at her. Which only proved him right. There was still a part of her that feared him, still a part of her that was stupid and lashed out in fury. It made her even angrier with herself than she was with him.

It wasn't until several minutes later that she realized the radio station had gone dead. There was only a ringing noise pouring from the speakers that Olive had mistaken for the ringing in her ears.

"Kill them all, Greyback," she muttered, wincing as she moved to stand from the bed, radio in hand. She didn't feel like dealing with the outlaws.

When Olive left the tent, she thought Scabior was going to blow a gasket. She could tell he was exerting an amazing amount of self-control not to hit her.

"The bloody fuck do you think you're doin'?" he demanded, grabbing her arm and dragging her back toward the tent. "Get the fuck back in bed."

Olive tugged her arm from his grasp, thrusting the radio at him. It was still on and tuned, the high-pitched ringing noise screeching from the speakers.

"He got them."

Scabior muttered a few choice words, but never went to grab her arm again.

"If he asks, you've come down with some flu."

Olive shot him a nasty look in reply before retreating back into the tent.

It was close to an hour before she heard Greyback struggling through the woods. Even though her hearing wasn't as good as the two men she worked with, she could tell there were at least a few witches or wizards he was trying to drag.

"Should have killed them," she said darkly under her breath. Olive didn't join Scabior when he went to help, instead standing near the tent flap with crossed arms, watching the two drag four people into the light of the campfire.

A breath caught in her throat and she stepped in for a closer look.

No, it couldn't be.

Her eyes drifted across the other three bodies, holding in the sigh of relief. No bushy haired girl. On a second scan of the captured wizards, she noted no Potter either. Olive's eyes shot back to the red-haired boy. Ron Weasley alone. But why?

He was squinting through the darkness at her, then his eyes widened in shock. Just as his mouth opened, she shot her finger up to rest on her lips, giving him a wide-eyed look. When Scabior and Greyback turned back around, her hand was down at her side as if nothing had passed between the two. She was glad to see he'd shut his mouth.

Scabior crouched down in front of each person, one at a time, demanding names and checking the Ministry list he'd pulled from his pocket. Weasley was last and gave him some fake name that sounded ridiculous, Scabior _tutting_ when he couldn't find it listed.

"That's him," Olive blurted, hoping she wouldn't need to remember the false name because it was already lost to her. "I went to school with him."

The men gave Weasley another long look, but seemed satisfied with Olive's testimony and left the lot tied up so tightly that they couldn't so much as wiggle. When the three Snatchers fled the cold for the tent, Olive gave Weasley a long glance before entering.

It seemed forever until the two men were asleep. It seemed even longer for Olive to snake out of Scabior's arms. Despite their exchanged words earlier, his arms had coiled around her like the ropes that bound those outside. It was suffocating.

From months of sleeping under the same tent with him, Olive knew Scabior woke often through the night and so she tried to hurry once her feet hit the floor, but each step sounded like a giant stomping through a city to her ears. Outside, the cold dug into her skin, but there had been no time to grab her coat. The four wizards were trembling, the chill of the air biting into them. All four were still awake and watched her with frightened eyes. It would be a lie if she said she hated it. It felt nice to be feared for once.

The other three seemed relieved when she knelt down next to Weasley. She had to bite back the grunt of pain at the movement, her body aching from her earlier fit.

Weasley was looking at her with untrusting eyes, but stayed silent. Olive bent down, her lips grazing his ear, and in the slightest whisper possible asked, "Why are you alone?"

She pulled back, making sure he'd understood what she had said before lowering her ear to his mouth.

"Argument," he whispered back, picking up on the need to be as silent as the breeze blowing through. When she pulled away to look at him, there was regret in his eyes.

"Others safe?" she breathed, once again at his ear. He nodded and so she continued, "How did you end up here?"

Olive cast a quick glance over her shoulder toward the tent. She'd heard a noise, but when she heard it again, she realized it was Greyback snoring. When she looked back, Weasley's face was strained in thought, but he gave a quick nod when he decided on his words.

"No place to go. Listened to their show, knew they were here."

Wheels were spinning in Olive's mind and she was so excited that she rammed her nose into his cheek when she bent to whisper, "Where are the others?" If she could impersonate Weasley, they could have Potter captured by morning and she could be free of Scabior and in the service of the Dark Lord. She wasn't sure which the better of two evils was, but she was willing to do anything to escape Scabior. She would need to get Hermione out somehow before the capture, but she hadn't gotten that far in her plan yet. But, Weasley threw a wrench in her plan when he shook his head. Either he didn't know where they were or he didn't trust Olive enough to tell her. If he was keeping secrets, she didn't have the means to draw them from him. Her magic was limited and time short. Instead, she sat back on her heels with a soft sigh, looking over to the other three. The radio wizards. A lightbulb went off in her head.

"Did you three listen a lot?" she asked in his ear, pulling back to nod toward the other wizards. Weasley gave her a strange look, but nodded. "Why?" she mouthed, managing to keep her face serious and hide her excitement.

"News," he whispered back. "Deaths."

Weasley's brow tucked and she could tell he was trying to figure out what she was getting at.

"Did the others listen?"

His eyes narrowed, looking at her face for a long moment. Apparently he found no reason there not to answer.

"Just Hermione. Got on Harry's nerves," he whispered.

That was all she needed.

Olive stood, giving him a quick nod before returning to the tent. Scabior barely stirred when she slid back under the covers, but muttered and had her back in his death grip within ten minutes.

Olive didn't care. She had a plan.

Her only problem arose the next morning when she awoke to Greyback's yelling and the dishes breaking again. All four of the wizards had somehow managed to escape in the night.

And now she was in a race.


	12. Chapter 12

_EDITED: 08/17/2015_

The mood over the next few days was sour. Barely any words had passed between the three of them, only tense directions barked here or there every time they moved camp. Which had grown to be quite frequent. At least once a day, sometimes two and once three, which Olive found redundant, but knew better than to protest. The men bickered back and forth, Scabior saying Greyback didn't bind the escaped wizards tight enough, Greyback blaming Scabior for not coming back and helping. Olive's nerves were on edge, her twitching growing with each word they spat at each other.

They were bickering now and Olive had enough.

"You're like children," she spat, standing from the kitchen table and stalking outside the tent. She wasn't sure what day it was or even what month, but the chill here didn't bite as hard as every other place they'd been.

Not knowing where Weasley was gave her enough reason to be anxious, but with Scabior and Greyback at each other's throats, it was too much. If Weasley already made his way back to Hermione and Potter, then it was another plan to throw in the trash. The only thing was that she wouldn't know if he returned until her plan was in full effect and that could make things turn dangerous in a heartbeat. If Olive showed up and told Hermione that Weasley was in trouble and Ron had already returned, they would be on to her. It could get ugly.

Still, she hadn't told either of the men about Weasley being who he was and she didn't intend to. Not yet, anyway. Greyback would be told when she got the chance, but Scabior had yet to take her bait. All the stress from chasing after these pirate radios had pushed his thoughts of sex onto the back burner. And she needed him to think of sex, she needed him to want it so he would take her somewhere she could find parchment and ink. If she had to dip her fingers in an inkwell and smudge out the words, she would do it. But first she needed the ink and something to smudge it on.

Maybe she should bring it up herself. The thought danced around her head for a while as she found a clean patch of grass for a seat.

The men were grating her nerves and she felt a need for escape. If she just went in there and told him she was leaving for the night, what would he do? Olive could see the most abashed look on his face and the thought was so ridiculous that it made her head dip into her hands, grin lighting up her face like it hadn't in months.

"What'er you smilin' about?"

Olive didn't dare look up at Scabior. His appearance only made her duck her head to her knees, trying to hide the shaking in her shoulders from holding in a laugh.

"What-," she squeaked, pausing when a giggle escaped her, "What would you do if I told you I was leaving for the night with no explanation?"

Olive knew she had to look stark raving mad. Just moments ago she'd snapped on the two of them and now she was unable to control herself, laughing like a lunatic.

When she looked up at him and he was making the exact face she pictured - brow tucked, nostrils flared, mouth agape as if unbelieving that she had the audacity to say such a thing - she fucking lost it. Her laughter howled so loud that a few birds scattered from the trees and Greyback burst from the tent with his wand drawn, thinking they were under attack. It made Olive laugh even harder. Maybe she _had_ gone stark raving mad.

Olive laughed and laughed and laughed, the world spinning, her body jerking, the nausea setting in. It didn't stop her. When she stumbled over to the trees and bent to vomit, she nearly choked from laughing. Even after, when Greyback had gone back inside with the shake of his head, she giggled like mad. Scabior stood and watched her with a blank expression. It made it even funnier.

In the end, that's what got her to a motel. It wasn't that she asked or that Scabior fell for her ploy. Scabior took her because she'd gone mad and he was finally going to have to mercy kill her. He couldn't deny the dread in his stomach at the thought. But, there was no doubt in his mind when she burst into another fit of laughter as he _Imperio'd_ the desk clerk at the muggle motel to hand over the keys to a room.

"You're afraid the wizarding world will see what you've done," she said, shaking with laughter despite the look of blame that flooded her eyes.

 _'No,'_ he thought, _'I don't want them to see what I'm going to do.'_

Scabior had the worst feeling that she wanted to stop laughing, but couldn't. It made this even harder. Each step up the dark, concrete stairwell was accompanied by her hollow laughter. The sound was growing darker and darker, like she knew what he was leading her to do, and he could hardly stand it. When they entered the motel room, Olive felt the air change between them, but she just couldn't stop giggling.

"Shut up, shut _up!"_ he demanded, the door clicking behind him. With a spurt of laughter, she put a finger to her lips.

"Shh," she said, grin dominating her face, "Muggle motels aren't sound proof." The blank look was beginning to creep into her eyes and he feared that was the last of his Olive he would ever see.

"Stop laughing," he said, grabbing her shoulders and giving a rough shake. Olive knew she couldn't handle his wrath, but there was something else besides anger in his eyes that kept the giggles spilling from her throat. "Stop it, _stop it!"_

When she didn't, he lost it and struck her across the face. Olive gave a violent jerk, her legs giving out, and she continued laughing from the floor, curled against the wall. When he kicked her in the ribs, she roared, tears spilling from both laughter and pain.

Scabior grabbed her by the hair, jerking her up onto one of the beds.

"Olive, stop laughing!" he repeated, shaking her by the front of her coat so hard that he didn't notice her starting to jerk. Olive knew what was happening and did nothing to stop it or her laughter. With each shake he gave her, Scabior's face filled with more and more desperation and she just couldn't help herself.

His forearm went to her throat, pinning her neck to the bed and laying on top of her. Then he felt it, the violent convulsions running through her body that shook even him. Olive looked at him with wild eyes, chin tucked against his arm as if she was trying to hold it there against her neck, still laughing through clenched teeth. It wasn't her anymore. It wasn't old Olive or even new Olive. It was something else inside her, something dark and crazed that dared him to kill her.

"Olive, stop," he said, all anger gone from his voice, replaced with thinly laced fear. He pulled his forearm from her as if her skin had burned him. "You're shaking really bad, you need to stop." It was one continuous shake now and Scabior couldn't tell the convulsions from the laughter.

"I thought you said I was beautiful when I smiled," she mocked. Olive's chest gave a jerk so violent that Scabior thought something was trying to burst out from inside her body. A panicked huff tightened in his throat when he watched her eyes roll back in her head.

"Olive, that's enough," he said when her eyes returned to him, the sick feeling rolling in his stomach. He didn't want to kill her like this. They both deserved a better experience. "I _order_ you to stop laughing."

To his horror, she didn't stop. A pain wrenched through her chest, heart beginning to pound through her body, starting in her chest, then her throat, then everywhere. The Vow.

"Olive, stop," he said and Olive watched raw fear cross his eyes for the first time. "Olive stop, you're dying!"

It was a wheezing laugh now, Olive clutching her chest, looking up at him with a crazed grin.

"It's worth the look on your face," she said. Even though her eyes were growing bloodshot, they still mocked him. When her fists clenched from the pain coursing through her, Scabior did the only thing he could think of. He crawled over her with a grunt, pinning down her arms with his knees, and clenched his fists. Back and forth, back and forth they socked into her face. Olive laughed for the first few blows, but the more bloody her face grew, the less noise she made. Then she was still.

"I'm sorry," he muttered into her hair. Olive had the nerve to say it to his face, but Scabior couldn't do the same in return.

There was no more laughing when Olive woke up. A headache roared inside her skull like nothing she had ever felt before. It hurt to open her eyes, but she did, and the first thing she saw was the bloody rag laying in the floor. The second was Scabior watching her from the chair in the corner. They just looked at each other for a long moment.

There was nothing to be said.

Olive got up, body shaking, and stumbled into the bathroom. She avoided the mirror. After seeing herself beaten and downtrodden in the reflection so many times, she had no desire to see more. Instead, she turned on the taps to the shower and peeled her clothes off, having to stop several times from the pain. The water hurt even more. It was a quick shower because of that and if every fiber of her being except for one little cell hated Scabior, then that lone cell appreciated him at least cleaning her face up while she was out. Her face would have taken awhile to clean and her legs wouldn't have held up standing that long. When she got out, she wrapped a white towel around her and went back into the room soaking wet. Olive couldn't remember if they'd brought her bag and everything hurt too much to check.

Blood stained the bed from earlier and so she laid down on the other, not bothering to pull back the covers. For a while, they just looked at each other again. Intense didn't do the experience justice. There was hatred burning behind their eyes, but also a mutual respect. Something was inside her that was willing to kill herself to have the last laugh and something was inside him willing to stop her. This was new for both of them. It drifted unsaid between their stares.

"Let's just go to sleep," she finally said, never taking her sight from his.

Scabior sat there for a few minutes more, finishing his cigarette despite the no smoking sign tacked to the wall behind him. When he finished, he lifted each foot into his lap and unlaced his boots, never looking away from her. With that done, he crossed the room and crawled onto the bed beside her. There had to be two feet between them.

"I hate you," she said, reaching up to extinguish the light.

"I hate you, too."

When Olive woke the next morning, she'd been dressed and the covers were pulled over her. Scabior's arm was draped beneath hers and over her waist. Their forearms ran along each other, Olive's hand resting on top of his. It wasn't until he began to stir several minutes later that she drew it away.

"You should have let me die," she said, eyeing the pen and paper next to the phone. The bed shifted and his nose ran through the patch of hair behind her ear.

"I'll be sorry that I didn't."

 _'Yes,'_ she thought, _'For once we agree.'_

Olive nodded off for a while longer, the sun barely peeking through the open curtains. It only seemed like a few minutes, but when Scabior gave her a gentle shake, the light was blaring across the other bed.

"Greyback'll be gettin' angry, we've got to go soon."

"Fuck him," Olive muttered, digging her head back into the pillow. When her pillow moved, she realized it was his arm beneath her neck. That answer seemed more than enough for Scabior, who drew her in closer to his chest.

"He's not here, you don't have to fucking suffocate me," she said in annoyance, fidgeting and trying to get out of his grip, though his arms were like steel, unyielding. Even the small display of control was too much and she managed to roll toward him with a nasty look. It only made him grip her tighter, his face never moving except his eyes, which were in constant motion scanning her face. It was getting difficult to breathe, he was squashing her to him, her arms so tight between their chests that she couldn't even move her fingers. "Scabior, stop," she said, brow tucked in annoyance, trying to wriggle backwards from him but going nowhere.

"Don't _ever -,"_ he said, jerking her to him so tight that her breath left in a whimper, _"-_ pull that shit with me again. That's a fuckin' order."

For just a moment, he had his Olive back. There was a tremble through her bottom lip, a quiver in her wide eyes. But, his Olive would have fought back, would have said something nasty. This Olive just stared at him, brow slightly tucked. But, there was enough fear in her eyes to make his cock grow against her and the strangled noise she made when he jerked her head back to kiss the hollow of her throat sent him over the edge.

By the time he finished with her, housekeeping was knocking on the door. Scabior ignored them, enjoying the sleepy feeling that flooded through him as he traced his fingers over her nipples, making them hard again.

"We've got to go," she muttered, refusing to look at him. Scabior sighed, but nodded, taking her nipple with his tongue for a moment before leaving her in bed. He wasn't sure if he enjoyed the pained expression on her face or not.

"Can't you go back to normal?" she asked, face tense, not daring to look at him. There was a muted venom laced in each word. Scabior stopped and turned, looking her over for a moment. Olive laying there naked in the disheveled sheets was a bittersweet sight.

"I will when you do," he said.

The woods seemed dreary and uninviting compared to the warm bed they'd shared the night before. Olive shook the thought from her brain as she slid her backpack under the bed. No, too suspicious. She pulled the canvas bag back out and propped it against the wall. It was important it didn't look out of place. If Scabior found the pen and paper and unraveled her plan, he may not be as gentle as he was last night after he beat her.

_Gentle._

Olive shuddered and pushed that thought from her head, too.

It took another two days before she broke free long enough to scribble a letter. The pad of paper was small and she ended up writing several sheets, which she rolled into a tube and shoved down in her boot.

_I know how to get Harry Potter. When I last ran from Scabior, they found me and took me in. I made friends with the girl. One of the Potter Pirates was Ron Weasley, the third person traveling with Potter. I lied to you two so I could question him and I'm so sorry for it. Please don't be angry with me. He said they got into an argument and he left. Weasley listened to all the pirate radio shows and that's how he ended up with the Potter Pirates. I asked and he said Hermione listened to the shows, too. I have a plan and if you work with me, all the gold from Potter is yours. All I want out of this is Hermione unharmed and Scabior dead. If you promise me those two things, I'll bring Potter to you. There isn't time to wait for your answer, it's taken me nearly a week to get my hands on this paper. If you don't want in, please just burn this, out of our friendship. Please don't let Scabior know because he'll kill me. If you're in, I need you to go back to where the Potter Pirates were broadcasting when you attacked. I don't know what the damage was, but fix any broken equipment and get the station back on the air. When you do, repeat the following: 'This message is from Olive Oil to the girl she sat next to in third year Muggle Studies. Your red friend is in trouble. Meet me where I left you, tonight at sundown. Leave H, too dangerous.' You may have to go back at different times and repeat it. This could take a few days. Send me out for dinner every night so I have an excuse to apparate and see if she showed up. Always apparate a few minutes after me to Fleet Forest where we camped. Tell him you're checking on camping sites or to see if your last guy showed up at the Ministry yet. He can't know we're meeting, he's jealous of you and would forbid me from interacting with you. I'll meet you in Fleet Forest each night, with her or without. If she is with me, you hide her and keep her safe, but not able to escape. Don't let Scabior near her. I'll get her to tell me where Potter is and impersonate her. When Potter sleeps, I'll bag him and bring him back to camp. Don't kill Scabior until I return. I want to watch._

It was another day before she got to slip it to Greyback. Scabior had stepped outside to get the fire going for the day and she went toward the werewolf so quick that she nearly tripped over her own feet. Greyback looked at her like she was daft when she pulled the note from her boot. In her pockets, panties, or bra, there was always a chance of Scabior finding it. The paper was wrinkled now, but Olive knew it was still readable.

"Hide it," she mouthed, laying the note in his giant hands before scuttling off to where she stood before. Greyback's brow tucked, but he nodded and shoved it in his pocket.

Later, after lunch, Greyback emerged from the bathroom, fighting hard to control his grin. When Scabior wasn't looking, the werewolf glanced at Olive and nodded.


	13. Chapter 13

_EDITED: 02/21/2015_

The first night, Hermione didn't show up. She didn't on the second, either. By the third morning, Olive was beginning to get a bad feeling that this wasn't going to work out. Each time she saw Scabior look at her, it made her skin crawl even worse than normal. Whatever had happened between them in that muggle motel, she wanted to forget. The madness that took her over, the way he looked at her when he shook her, how he'd bothered to clean her face while she was out. Waking up to see he'd dressed her and pulled the covers over her would have been the worst, if it wasn't for what followed. The way he clenched her to his chest, threatened her, kissed her neck. When he said he'd go back to normal when _she_ did. Olive replayed that moment over and over during the next few days while she laid in his tight arms. He admitted it, then. He was different now. Things typically went unsaid between them. It was unsettling to have something so out in the open, Olive wasn't sure how to feel about it. But, every time thoughts of that motel crept into her mind, she would let out a great tremor, begging herself to forget. If she kept pushing it from her thoughts, it would eventually be like it didn't happen. Part of her didn't want to forget, though. It made her hatred for Scabior burn fiercer.

Things in the tent were still tense. Greyback would disappear several times a day and Scabior would scowl each time. "Goin' off to scout for new camp sites," Greyback had told them and Scabior was sick of moving around so much. Olive, of course, knew Greyback was sending her message out over the radio, but she had to scowl along with Scabior so he might not think anything was out of place. If he suffocated her with his arms at night, he suffocated her with his jealousy by day. The glances she and Greyback shared had grown to be only a few. Olive kept her eyes glued to her hands when the werewolf was around in fear that Scabior would lash out.

"What do you want for dinner tonight?" Olive asked Scabior, her back toward him as she supervised the dishes that were washing themselves. Fenrir was out for the third time that day.

"Prob'ly just the pub again," he said, a note of distaste in his tone. They'd had the pub for the past two nights, it being Olive's only excuse to leave. First she would check the spot where she and Hermione had parted, then wait about ten minutes after sundown. When she didn't show up, Olive would apparate to Fleet Forest, tell Greyback that Hermione hadn't met her, and then go to the pub to get dinner for the three of them, like Scabior thought she was doing all along. Each night Scabior bitched about her taking so long, but was sated when she prepared his food, but left Greyback's on the counter. One of her shared glances with the wolf was an apologetic one that he just shrugged at.

Olive didn't mind the pub, though. They had a beef and barley stew she'd begun to crave day and night. It reminded her of her dad, who used to make it on the chilly winter evenings. It made her feel like maybe he was still out there somewhere. If he was still out there somewhere, that meant he wasn't watching her from the afterlife. Olive didn't want her dad to see what she was becoming.

"Pub again?" Scabior asked to Greyback that evening, after he returned from his fourth trip that day. Greyback nodded and the two rattled off what they wanted to eat for Olive to remember. It would have been easier to write it down, but the paper in her bag was still a secret. Instead, she repeated the complicated order over and over in her head, hoping Hermione would show up tonight and she wouldn't need to recall what they wanted to eat. When she stood to leave, she and Fenrir shared a look. _Ten minutes._ They had the timing down pat now. Olive gave a long look to Scabior, wondering how much longer it would be until he was dead. He must have sensed her dark feelings because his brow tucked, but she turned and apparated before he had the chance to say anything.

When she landed in the stretch of trees, Olive nearly jumped out of her skin. Hermione was standing there with crossed arms, trying to keep from fidgeting. The girl jumped as much as Olive had.

"Where is Ron?" was the first thing from Hermione's mouth, face etched with worry. Olive didn't answer at first, instead pulling her wand out to set up a few wards. Hermione didn't find it out of place, this was common practice now. Witches and wizards on the run from the Ministry set them up to be safe from the Snatchers. Olive only set them up so Potter wouldn't stumble out and find them.

"With Snatchers," Olive lied once she'd lowered her wand, turning to the other girl. Hermione looked ill in an instant, not offering a reply.

"They caught me again," Olive continued to fill Hermione's silence, "They made me take an Unbreakable Vow not to hurt any of the Snatchers." The half-lie felt heavy on her tongue. "Or else I would have just blasted them away and helped him escape. That's why you have to do it. You're more help than I could be." Hermione had a far-off look in her eyes, uncertain of the entire situation. Olive wondered if she was even listening to her well-prepared story. "You understand why Potter can't know. We can't lead him into a Snatcher camp, everyone knows who he is. You're smart, though, and they don't know your face. If they find you, I know you can talk yourself out of it. I wouldn't be here if I didn't think they were going to kill him soon."

Olive watched the bushy haired girl swallow, drawing a deep breath after. "What do you want me to do?" Hermione asked, eyes finally moving to meet hers. It took a great amount of self-control to keep the smile from spreading across Olive's face.

"I'm going to impersonate you," Olive started, "And go keep guard over Potter. He's too important to leave alone. If he gets killed, the war is lost."

_'If he escapes, my war is lost.'_

Hermione cast a glance over her shoulder, probably in the direction Potter was in.

"Show me where Potter's at, I'll take you to where Weasley is after you show me. I'll come right back to Potter. As soon as you get back with Weasley, I'll go and you guys need to move camp. If they find out what I've done and torture me, I don't want to know where you've gone."

Olive's body gave a twitch at the stress of the situation. Hermione was looking at her with distrustful eyes. Olive gave a second twitch.

"Olive," said Hermione, drawing out her name and looking every inch of her beaten face over. "Did they _torture_ you?"

Her body gave yet another jerk. Hermione was clever, Olive knew, but she seemed to tell from her twitching that she'd been tortured.

"Scabior did," she admitted. "I don't think I'll be quite right again."

Hermione just stared at her with wary eyes. "How do I know you're not _Imperio'd_?" the girl continued.

This wasn't going as planned. Olive was getting a sick feeling in her stomach that Weasley had already returned and they were getting ready to ambush her. She shot a nervous glance over her shoulder, but there was nothing there. Had a twig snapped in the distance or was that her imagination? Had Greyback grown tired of all this and told? Had Scabior found her out? A shudder ran through her body, stealing her breath. He may not have let her kill herself the other night, but Olive knew he would take great joy in killing her over something like this.

"Ask me a question," she blurted, eyes scanning around them. "Hurry, I think they may have found me out." Olive was trying to force Hermione into a faux sense of urgency, though her own chest was tightening, half-believing Scabior was going to jump out and snatch her back. The pain from being under his wand ran through Olive's mind. Two more shudders snaked through her.

"Who was the first person you saw when you woke up in our tent?" she asked. Olive scrunched her eyes, trying to remember if it was Weasley or Potter. One had been sitting there and stood when she woke, knocking the chair over backwards.

"Weasley," she decided, recalling that Harry had burst in after she woke up. Hermione narrowed her eyes, looking Olive over, but finally nodded. Olive's tension eased a little, but there was still a slight shake in her hands.

"What happened to you? What happened to Ron?" Hermione prodded, not hiding her fear or worry. It must have been nice being able to so openly display your emotions. She and Scabior had never known that peace.

Olive drew a breath, jerk running down the arm that clutched her wand in a tight fist. The excitement of Hermione showing up was proving too much.

"I was recaptured by Scabior right after I left you," she started. "He was still lurking about and heard me tell you I was going home." She thought it best to skip the part where she used Potter as a bargaining chip for her own life. "They made me take an Unbreakable Vow," she said, also leaving out the bit about the Dark Lord. "I'm being kept as a plaything right now. _Entertainment._ I'm sure as soon as he's bored of me, I'll be killed."

Something gnawed inside her, knowing that was the most honest thing she'd said so far. But, if it came down to her dying, she would take Scabior down with her. One way or another, he was going to die. If not by her hand, then by her design.

"He's come close a few times. To killing me, I mean. He tortured me so bad that I've begun losing my grip on reality." Olive paused, giving Hermione a long look. "I even tried to break my Vow in a fit of madness. I guess I just wanted to help you before I become a shell of a person with nobody home."

That last bit was genuine, at least. She did want to help _Hermione._

"The Ministry has the Snatchers cracking down on these radio stations. That's how we came across Weasley. He was captured by our unit and we instantly recognized one another. They almost killed him when he used a fake name, but I jumped in and pretended to know whoever he said he was. They found us out and that's why I'm here. He told me you all had a falling out and that's why he ended up with the Potter Pirates. I had a trusted friend return to their tent and send out the broadcast to grab your attention. They mean to take Weasley to the Dark Lord, torture information out of him, then torture him for sport until he's not right in the head, worse off than me. I've seen sick things, Hermione, I don't want him to go through that. I know how much he means to you and Potter."

It was a lot to digest, Olive knew. Lines were deepened in Hermione's face from thought. Each snippet of information was processing, the wheels turning in her brain.

"I have to tell Harry."

Olive's breath hitched in her throat, eyes widening as another twitch ran through her body.

"Hermione, you can't," she said, traces of panic in her voice.

"I can't just leave!' she said, eyes turning back over her shoulder again. Potter _had_ to be in that direction. If there was one thing she'd learned from Scabior, it was that the targets always gave themselves away. "He's Ron's friend, he deserves to know this, too!'

If it came down to it, Olive would _Crucio_ her, wait until she was weak enough, and take her to Greyback herself. She didn't want things to go like that, though. It could draw attention. And attention would blow the whole plan to pieces. Everything must stay discreet.

"I'll just do what I did last time," Olive said in a hurry, morphing her bruised face into Hermione's, then following with the rest of her body. The girl just watched her, unsure of what to do. "We can't tell Potter," Olive continued with Hermione's face, "He won't let you go alone. It'll get all of us killed."

Silence rung between the real and the impostor Hermiones.

"Okay," said the real one.

"Take me to Potter," said the fake.

Olive released the wards that surrounded them and took off after Hermione, who was walking in the direction she'd looked at earlier. Olive hid the smirk that threatened to grow on her face - she was right about Hermione giving Potter's location away with her over-the-shoulder glances. At least something useful came from Scabior. They stepped as quiet as they could through the brush, not wanting Potter to hear and poke around until he found them. Or anyone else, for that matter. Olive cast another look around, fearing Scabior would step from the trees with that snarl of his.

"When I heard the radio this morning, I brought us back here so I could be near," Hermione muttered after they'd walked about ten minutes. She raised a finger and pointed to two large trees that dominated a clearing. "Camp is right there, between those two trees."

Olive was so eager to bag Potter that she twitched the whole way back from where they came. They knew they couldn't apparate so close to camp or he'd hear.

"Is there anything I should know before you leave?" Olive asked, "Where did you tell him you were going when you came to meet me? In case he comes out to talk."

"Hunting mushrooms," Hermione said, stopping and turning to look at her twin. "He may talk about…things you don't understand. If he does, just try and look deep in thought. Or say you don't know."

Olive nodded, then looked around. "I think we're far enough out," she said.

Hermione was fidgeting with her clothes. "Merlin's pants!" she said, "Our clothes! How could we be so stupid?"

Potter probably wouldn't have noticed anyway, but Olive played along and the two of them swapped outfits among the trees. Olive noticed Hermione had lost weight since the last time she'd worn her clothes. She had to morph herself a bit smaller to fit the jeans, an uncomfortable pressure at morphing so small. A metamorphmagus could only morph as small as their frame allowed. It was apparent that Hermione had a much slighter build, as Olive struggled to hold the guise long enough to button the trousers. When she finally got them fastened, she exhaled, the denim digging into her expanding skin. It made Olive wonder how often Hermione got to eat. Maybe she took for granted getting to eat the pub every night. Not a single pound had been lost on her, only muscle built. For once, she saw that maybe being stuck with Scabior could be worse than it was.

"Ready?" asked Olive, linking her arm with Hermione's, who only nodded. Then they were spinning, bodies pressed together, and landing on the ground with a distinct popping noise. While their surroundings were still spinning around them, Olive's wand flew from her hand and then Hermione was disarmed. They were both bound in ropes at the blink of an eye.

"This one is me," Olive said to Greyback, calm as ever as she made her face flash back to how she normally looked long enough for him to see. When he nodded, she morphed back into Hermione.

"Olive?" asked Hermione, hurt and betrayal etched in each line of her face.

"I'm just keeping you safe," she said, unable to look at the girl and glancing up to Greyback instead. Olive remembered the first time she saw the werewolf, how large and frightening he seemed. "This is a friend," she continued to Hermione, not wanting her to be afraid. She was relieved when Greyback finally released her from the bonds that held her tight and she grabbed her wand.

"Where did her wand get to? I'll need it," she said. The two of them looked for it while Hermione sat in silence, face in shock, still processing what had happened.

"It's a good thing I lied to you about where Harry is," she finally said. A twitch ran down Olive.

" _What_ did you just say?"

Hermione shuddered when she saw the darkness that crept over Olive's features, a storm raging in her eyes, the way her nostrils flared in the slightest, her mouth curving down into a snarl. Olive found Hermione's wand and tucked it into the back pocket of her jeans before kneeling down in front of her. She snatched the girl's chin up between tight fingers and forced Hermione to look at her. All semblance of friendship was gone between them.

"If you lied to me," Olive started, darkness flooding each word, "You've got about three seconds to fix it before I torture it out of you."

Behind her, Greyback shifted on his feet, crossing his arms. It was unsettling to see how much like Scabior she had become. Then Olive actually started counting to three and the werewolf thought maybe she'd grown even darker than Scabior.

_"Three."_

The word wrung out through the trees, Greyback growing anxious at the suspense, wondering if Olive would hold true on her threat. He hoped she did. The Granger girl was just looking at Olive with hatred in her eyes, mouth clenched shut. Those were always the most fun to make scream.

The werewolf grinned, watching the scene unfold. Olive stood with one of her jerks and raised her wand. Fenrir didn't buy into that flu shit. No, he'd seen enough people tortured into madness to know what happened to her. Scabior thought he was trying to cover the mess he made. He didn't realize yet that it wasn't a mess he'd made, it was a monster.

Screams pierced through the bitter air, the girl writhing under Olive's wand.

Yes. A monster.

Though the look on Olive's face was not a happy one, there had to be some part of her that wanted to torture the girl or the curse wouldn't have worked. The screaming went on for ages, Greyback having missed the sound while they were forced to look for those stupid radio stations, but when Granger gave a violent shudder, Olive abruptly stopped. Fenrir just stood back and watched. She'd hit her own nerve, watching the girl give small convulsions.

"I'm a _Snatcher_ ," Olive sneered, kicking the girl in the ribs, who let out a pitiful squeak and tried to protect herself from Olive's fury. "I'll find him either way, it's what I do." That earned a throaty laugh from the werewolf. "Keep her safe," she muttered to him, words sounding hollow after the display she'd just put on. "Don't kill Scabior until I get back. Sunrise tomorrow at the latest."

Olive couldn't look at him, disgusted with herself for what she'd done. When it made him laugh again, she apparated without another word.

Back where she'd met Hermione, Olive crumbled against a tree, hugging her knees to her chest. It felt like she should be trying to catch her breath, but her breathing was perfectly normal and that scared her even more. Why couldn't Scabior just have killed her or even let her kill herself in her fit of madness? Why did he keep her around when she was like _this?_ It was far crueler than death. Becoming your worst enemy, at the hand of that same enemy, is the cruelest thing of all.

"I hate you, I _hate_ you," she muttered into her knees, trying to cry. The tears wouldn't come. Because as much as she loathed Scabior and herself for what she'd just done, her adrenaline was still pumping, wanting more. She wanted to be powerful, to be cruel, to be feared. She wanted to be in control.

When her twitching died down, she stood and hid her wand in the waist of Hermione's jeans, which proved difficult with the tight fit, and pulled out the other from her back pocket. The growth underneath seemed even more treacherous in the darkness that had fallen. Olive half-suspected that Hermione had been lying _about_ lying, just trying to undo her mistake. When she found the two large trees in the clearing and stumbled through, she found her hunch was right. There was a tent nestled there, the flickering light of a lantern leaking through the flap. No fire, she noted. Freedom was right on the other side of the canvas and she could practically see the angry look on Scabior's face when he found out she would be free of him.

When she poked her head into the tent, Potter was sitting at the wooden table, head in his hands. Their tent was even more pitiful than Scabior's, which was saying something. The room was cramped, the furniture pushed close together, and she wondered how they could stand living like that and not feel claustrophobic all the time.

"Harry?" she said, nearly calling him by his last name. She would have to remember she was Hermione now and Hermione spoke a tad more posh than came naturally to Olive.

The boy looked up, his hair falling down over his ears, framing his face with a shaggy mop. Yes, that was him. He only grunted in return. Olive noticed there was a thick chain around his neck, the top of some pendant poking through the buttons on his shirt. She thought it odd, as it looked feminine, but said nothing. It was best to keep her words limited while she waited to bag him.

"I couldn't find any mushrooms," she said, feeling as apologetic as she sounded. With the capture of Walrich, she and Scabior had grown used to eating well. It had been several hours since she'd last eaten, but judging by his thin hands, she wondered if it hadn't been several _days_ since Potter had. The tightness of her jeans made her shift in discomfort, hoping Greyback had the decency to get Hermione a warm meal. Especially after what Olive had just done to her.

"You look tired," he said, giving her a softer look. "I'll take first watch, you get some sleep."

"No, no, Harry, that's alright," she blurted, tremor running down her arm, "You sleep first, I'm okay, really."

The boy just shook his head, standing from the table with a set face.

"No, Hermione. You've been up all day and were gone for ages looking for food while I just sat around useless. Sleep. I'll wake you up when I'm tired. I'll need the wand, though."

Need the wand? Not wanting to seem out of place and have questions arise, she held Hermione's wand out to him. The moment it was in his hand, she could have cursed herself. Why the bloody fuck didn't she just bag him then, when he didn't have a wand?

_Stupid cunt._

A violent shudder took her over, but Potter had already left the tent, not allowing her another word. Olive jerked so bad that she watched the tips of her hair grow and turn to a lighter blonde. She shook her head and renewed the guise.

 _'Get it together,'_ she thought, _'Just a few hours more.'_

Sleep was out of the question. When she went back to the bedroom, she looked at the three cots, brow tucked. Which one did Hermione sleep on? Something as small as that detail could blow her cover. In turn, she inspected each of the pillows. On the one in the middle, she plucked up a long, curly hair between her fingers. It was the best guess she had, so she slid onto the cot with a grimace. Hours passed, but Potter never returned. Her nervous fingers kept feeling over the spot in her jeans, making sure her wand was still there. Not that it could get up and walk away, but her head played so many tricks on her since that night in the snow that she kept checking, thinking maybe she only _thought_ she'd checked the last time.

Though her eyes ached to close, she kept rubbing her face to stay awake, little jitters racing down her fingers. Olive didn't dare sleep for fear of being found out and killed. Another hour or so passed.

Greyback would be getting impatient. As the night wore on and Olive battled sleep, she cursed herself for being over-confident. They hadn't discussed what to do if she wasn't back before sunrise the next day. Had Greyback made arrangements to keep Hermione hidden for more than a day? If not, what would he do with her? Would he think Olive dead if she didn't return? Would he think she broke her Vow and ran? Question after question rang through her head and she thought of every possible answer. If anything, it was to help keep her awake.

Potter still hadn't returned by the time the sun peeked over the hills that surrounded them. Anxiety was rolling through her stomach while she sat outside the tent, having moved there two hours ago so that the cold would keep her from nodding off. Olive decided when he returned, she would just have to disarm and catch him unaware. If she had to drag him kicking to Greyback, she would.

Olive would do _anything_ to escape Scabior.

But, then she heard it. Voices - more than one. And the dread clenched through her stomach when they stepped back into the clearing. Things just got trickier than she anticipated.

Weasley had returned.

And now she was outnumbered.


	14. Chapter 14

_EDITED: 02/21/2015_

Olive had been so angry and caught off guard by Weasley showing up that she darted after him with clenched fists, not thinking that she was supposed to be Hermione. Her mind simply flooded with the need to harm him. When he dodged every hit, she turned to Potter, going after him with her arm outstretched. "Harry, give me my wand," she had demanded, knowing that by the time she dug her own from the jeans, they would realize she was an impostor.

Potter only smiled and held up a broken locket. Ron did the same, holding up a silver sword. Olive didn't know what the fuck that meant or how she was supposed to act, so she sobered and grew quiet. Since they were both smiling, she smiled, too, hoping that was the right reaction. Still, it was hard not to throw a punch at Weasley when she had the chance, but he had a big fucking sword and she had nothing.

Over the next few weeks, she learned they were hunting Horcruxes, though she hadn't figured out exactly what they were yet. The locket, apparently, was a Horcrux. All Olive knew was that they were out to destroy them.

Each night, when she laid on Hermione's cot, her mind drifted to Scabior. What had he been about to say when she left him for the last time? His brow had tucked, but she turned and left before he got to say what was on the tip of his tongue. It bothered her now, not knowing. It also bothered her not knowing what he was doing or thinking at any given moment. That was how she knew that as long as he was alive, she would fear him.

But, surely he thought she was dead.

Olive wondered what he'd done that night when she didn't come home. And again the next morning and every evening that followed. Scabior, always in control, always on top of any situation, would have no idea what happened to her. Olive could practically see him scowling, running over different scenarios in his head as to why she didn't come back, the lines deepened in his face for not knowing which was true. That was the only comfort she found in being stuck with Potter.

Unless Greyback had told him, of course. Sickness twisted in her stomach at the thought. He wouldn't, would he? Yes, he would. Eventually. If only to get the satisfaction of telling Scabior he'd plotted with Olive behind his back. Fenrir was a fickle, impatient man, but he wouldn't tell if he thought Olive was still alive. The question was if he did or not. She held onto hope that he still had Hermione stashed away and his mouth glued shut.

"Don't forget your promise," she whispered into the air one night while the boys took guard outside. That's why all this was taking so long. The boys had insisted on doing double guard while the third person slept after Weasley told them about being captured. Potter had almost triggered a Taboo and Ron freaked out, which led to the whole story.

"And that Olive girl was there with them," he said, after he'd finished the tale of his initial capture. Olive feigned surprise, but said nothing. "I couldn't figure out if she was with them or not. She lied for me and even snuck out that night to ask me a few questions. Kept lookin' over her shoulder all scared, like they were gonna come grab her up. But, they didn't have her tied up or nothin'. And she didn't try to run."

 _'Yes, I did,'_ she thought, _'He just kept finding me.'_

That made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. Something deep in her gut told her he would find her again. Scabior was a stubborn man. Even if he thought her dead, he would keep hunting until he found her body.

_'It's just the paranoia, he'll be dead before long.'_

But, now things were starting to look down. Olive wracked her brain constantly, trying to think of the best way to go about bagging Potter. Each time she held watch with him, she would tell herself that she was going to do it - disarm, bag, apparate - but she always lost her nerve. Everyone in Hogwarts knew Potter was advanced when it came to dueling. Growing up the same year as him, it was just known he was talented and special. It would be a feat to disarm him with her own wand, let alone Hermione's.

And disarming Weasley was out of the question. She could get his wand and bind him, but not before he would yell out and alert Potter. From what she'd seen and what she knew, she didn't think Harry would yell out for Ron because he wouldn't want to put him in more danger. And if it came down to bagging Weasley, she couldn't hurt him anyway, if she needed to. He was a pureblood and it was against her Vow.

Old Olive would have been hasty, sloppy, gotten herself hurt or killed. Now, Olive had the patience to wait it out, no matter how anxious it made her. Even as her glances around each new forest grew more frequent, the squirming in her stomach telling her they were going to be caught, she was patient.

The weeks were starting to run into one another. Each morning, when all three were up, one would go out and start the hunt for food, their stomachs growling in constant rhythm. If Olive was capable of missing any aspect of Scabior, it was that he at least made sure she was fed. Well, that and keeping her warm at night. The tent she shared with Potter and Weasley was thin and the chill seeped through the canvas. But, each time Olive thought of Scabior's steel grip around her, she shook it away with a shudder.

The two who hadn't gone looking for food sat inside and either brooded or discussed the Horcrux things. Olive had been faking an illness to cover for her jitters and her voice, which was the slightest bit deeper than Hermione's. She got through those conversations by clearing her throat every few minutes, as if she were sick, and staying quiet. If they asked her a question, she would pretend her voice had gone out for a moment and give them an apologetic look. Either that or just shrug.

Each night at first, she kept count of how many days she'd been with the boys. After 23, she forgot to count and lost track. That had been a week ago now. Maybe two.

And each day, she grew hungrier. Sometimes when it was her turn to sleep, she just couldn't no matter how tired she was. Olive would pull the covers over her head and lay there in a fetal position, clutching at her stomach to make it stop yelling at her. Sometimes it even felt like her stomach was squirming about, trying harder to get her attention.

Though the ringing in her ears was still constant, the nausea had died down, which she was most thankful for. Still, she sometimes felt a dry, tight feeling in her throat and chest, wanting a cigarette. At this point, she would probably eat it. Her mouth watered when she wondered if it would taste like cherry and her stomach gave another squirm at the thought.

It was about time for her to go on watch with Weasley, so she stood from her cot and stretched, grimacing at the way Hermione's jeans pinched her hips. It made her feel even worse for the girl. Olive had been with them for at least a month and, sometimes, when the boys were on guard, she would make her hands return to normal, watching them become thinner and thinner each time. Still, no matter how hard she tried, the rest of her wouldn't shrink. She often felt like a stuffed sausage in Hermione's clothes, glad the jacket was big enough to cover anywhere she looked larger than the girl. But, if only her hands had grown thinner over that month, how long had Hermione been hungry to have dropped this much weight?

Olive's thoughts were interrupted when she walked out to see both Weasley and Potter at the wooden table. It was unusual to not keep at least one person outside watching the woods for movement.

"Hermione, sit. We want your input," said Harry. Olive did as she was told and took the seat next to Ron. She wasn't sure what to think when his leg rested against hers, but she acted as if he weren't touching her and looked over to Harry with an expectant expression.

"That symbol we keep seeing," Potter started, "It has to mean something, otherwise Dumbledore wouldn't have drawn it in the book he left you."

Olive nodded with a serious expression, not having the slightest clue what he was talking about. When she would shuffle through Hermione's beaded bag, there were many books. She had no idea which one Dumbledore would have given her or why he would have given Hermione a book in the first place.

"It was on a grave, too, in Godric's Hollow, remember? Peverell."

Again, she nodded and this time Weasley spoke up.

"Harry said Luna's dad had a pendant of it on at the wedding. And we know he's safe, he's been on Harry's side all along, postin' what's really been goin' on in The Quibbler."

Olive didn't like this. It was hard enough having to figure out how to act in front of those two, she didn't want to throw a third person into the mix. And what were they even talking about? Loony Lovegood's dad? How did they know him? What wedding?

"They live close to the Burrow," continued Ron. "It might be worth a trip."

Silence rested between them. The last thing she wanted was to be seen out with Potter. It was a death sentence. Even being with him now was dangerous. Olive cleared her throat before she continued.

"Sounds risky," she muttered, clearing her throat again for good measure.

"Dumbledore wouldn't have written it in there if it wasn't important," argued Harry.

Olive had only ever spoken to their late Headmaster before she started Hogwarts and so she had no idea why he would write the symbol into some book and give it to Hermione. Feeling way in over her head, she grew silent. And staying silent is what landed her at Loony Lovegood's house about an hour later, Mr. Lovegood answering the door with wide eyes and a stutter.

Xeno, she learned his name was, seemed a nervous man. Kind, though. He made them all some awful, bitter tea and then they found themselves sitting in the awkward silence of his living room.

Finally, Xeno's gravelly voice carried through the room after he took a long drink from his cup, eyes flitting between their faces.

"How can I help you, Mister Potter?"

Harry, who was sitting closest to the strange man, leaned a bit closer.

"Well…actually, it was about something you were wearing 'round your neck at the wedding." Olive's eyes darted outside, scanning for danger. She didn't like this. "A symbol," Harry finished. Xeno drew a silver pendant from around his neck, holding it up for them all to see. Olive sat farthest away from him and it looked like some strange triangle at her distance. "You mean this?" Xeno asked.

Harry barely let a second pass before breathing, "Yes," and reaching out to touch the necklace. "That exactly. What we wondered is…what is it?"

Olive shifted in her seat. She knew far more efficient ways to interrogate and get the answers. "What is it?" Xeno repeated. "Well, it's the sign of the Deathly Hallows, of course."

"The what?" all three asked, though Olive's voice rung out a bit sharper. She wanted the answers and she wanted out of there.

"The Deathly Hallows," he said again. Olive threw a glance to Weasley to see if he seemed to feel the same impending doom she did. When he looked over to her, she could tell he didn't. _'Only paranoia,'_ she told herself, but she couldn't shake the bad feeling she had about Luna's dad. The men talked for a few minutes more, but Olive ignored them, eyes glued outside the window. It wasn't so cold anymore and some odd fruit was growing in the front yard. Other than leaves blowing in the breeze, there was no movement outside. Her eyes kept scanning, though.

When Ron nudged her, she looked over to the three, a quick jerk running down her leg.

"Do you have the book, 'Mione?" Ron whispered, though it seemed like a scream in the quiet room. What was the point in whispering when everyone could hear you? Potter and Xeno watched her with tense faces.

"Oh, yes, of course," she said, opening the beaded bag with dread. She hadn't the slightest idea which book she was supposed to be looking for. "You find it," she said, shoving the bag to Weasley. "My hands are shaking too bad, I'll knock everything over." Weasley gave her an odd look and her stomach clenched. Hermione was more of a control freak and probably would have never let Ron dig through her things. She would have to make up for it, do something very Hermione soon. Even Harry was watching her with a tucked brow.

Weasley muttered into the bag, wand in hand, and a book flew up and knocked him in the face. With the tense air in the room, no one so much as smiled and Olive felt bad when his ears burned red. Thankfully, though, he took it upon himself to open the book to a certain page before handing it back. In the top corner, she saw the same symbol scrawled in ink. "You want me to read?" she asked and all three nodded. Olive drew a breath, blinking to focus her eyes on the small print. The ringing was back in her ears and it sometimes made it hard to concentrate. She didn't realize it messed with her vision until now, when she was focusing on the tiny letters. Trees were all she ever saw and those looked about the same with blurred or perfect vision.

"There were once three brothers-," she said, voice giving a slight shake as if she were unsure, "- who were traveling along a lonely, winding road at twilight."

"Midnight," Ron interrupted. When the men just stared at him, he turned to defend himself. "Mum always said midnight."

Olive was staring daggers at him as he turned back to look at her. All she wanted to do was get out of there before something bad happened and if he was going to interrupt, he could bloody well read it himself.

"Twilight's fine," he blurted, Olive looking back down at the book with a set jaw, "Better actually."

"Do you want to read it?" she said in a sharp tone. Xeno was at the window now, looking out. _'But for what?"_

"Uhm, no," Ron muttered, ashamed he'd interrupted, and so she started again. This time he didn't interrupt and she managed to read the whole thing without stuttering from the twitches which ran through her spine. When she was finished, the men exchanged a few more words while she fumbled to get the book back in the small bag. Xeno was muttering to himself when she looked back up, shuffling around like a mad man, looking for something.

"Ah, here it is," he said, picking up a bit of charcoal. His hands were shaking worse than Olive's while he fluttered about for parchment, the three of them standing and crossing the room to see what he was going on about. In a moment of dark humor, Olive related to the man - she knew how desperate one could get for parchment and writing utensils. That made her think of the muggle motel, which in turn made her shudder.

Careful as ever, Xeno hunched over, drawing a straight line down the paper, his face tense in concentration. When he'd finished, he turned his head, holding back his scraggly hair with a hand so it wasn't in his face. "The Elder Wand," he declared, "The most powerful wand ever made." They stood in silence, the boys watching him with wide eyes as he turned back to the parchment. Olive thought they were all crazy, her eyes scanning the yard below instead. When she looked back, he'd drawn a circle on the line.

"The Resurrection Stone," he said. Without another word, he went on to draw the triangle that surrounded them. "The Cloak of Invisibility," he finished. Olive cast glances to both Potter and Weasley. This guy was as mad as his daughter. Every moment they were with this loony, they were putting themselves at risk. "Together they make the Deathly Hallows. Together they make one master of death."

"That mark was on a grave in Godric's Hollow," Olive offered, remembering what Harry had said earlier. Though she wanted nothing more than to get out of there, she knew she had to make up for her mistake earlier. Even though she only ever had one class with the girl, the Ravenclaws typically poked fun at Hermione because she felt the need to make everyone aware she was a know-it-all. Anxiety ripped at her chest, fighting the urge to look back outside. "Uhm," she continued, racking her brain for the name Potter had said earlier. "Mr. Lovegood, does the Peverell family have anything to do with the three brothers?"

There. She'd done her part. That would sate the boys for today, now she could go back to silence and trying to steer them the fuck out of there. Olive hoped the man had no clue what she was talking about, so it didn't spin off into another lengthy conversation.

"Uh," Xeno said, more a huff of air than anything, "Uh, ugh, ah, Ignotus," he said, pushing through the three with a nervous jitter, his eyes looking anywhere except them, "Excuse me. And his brothers Cadmus and Antioch are thought to be the original owners of the Hallows and therefore the inspiration for the story." Each word blurred into the next in a nervous pace, Xeno now across the room with the tea kettle in hand. "Ah," he breathed, opening the lid, "Ugh, but your tea's gone cold." He snapped the lid, shoulders rocking now, and looked back up to them. "I'll be right back."

Olive wanted the _fuck_ out of there _now._ There was something wrong with him, something he wasn't saying and she didn't like it one bit. As soon as the man stumbled down the stairs, Ron bent to grab his bag and muttered, "Let's get out of here," with the same sense of urgency that was coursing through Olive's body. She could have kissed him. "I'm not drinking anymore of that stuff, hot or cold." She wasn't sure if he was joking or not, but if he wanted to go, she would jump at any chance. Olive led the way down the spiral staircase that moment, not wanting to dawdle any longer.

"Thank you, sir," she said to Xeno's back. He'd been looking out the window again and Olive had to force a polite tone. From the corner of her eye, she found the front door. Always locate a way out.

"You forgot the water," Ron said once he made it down the stairs. There was a slight accusation beneath his words and Olive was glad someone else was picking up that something wasn't right here.

"Water?" Xeno asked, voice far away, like his mind was on something else. Olive eyed the door again.

"For the tea," Ron said, darkness in each word.

"D-did I?" Xeno stuttered with a laugh, turning around to properly face them. He began giggling a nervous, tittering noise as he brushed past them. "How silly of me!" Olive didn't like that he kept laughing and walked to look out of a different window.

"It's no matter," she said in a careful tone. "We really should be going anyway."

 _"No, you can't!"_ Xeno exploded, dropping the kettle from his hands. He crossed the room without looking at them, muttering like mad under his breath. Olive could feel her chest tightening, eyes glancing toward the door, where he was now headed. He slammed into it, back facing them. Her heart was beginning to beat a bit harder, knowing that as pitiful as he looked, he was blocking them from leaving and that was his intention.

"Sir?" Harry asked.

The silence was deafening as the man turned around and put his back to the door, darkness crossing his face.

"You're my only hope," he muttered, at least having the decency to look ashamed. The pause was so long it was uncomfortable, Olive shifting on her feet and looking out the window again. If need be, she would bust it to get out. "They were angry, you see. About what I'd been writing. So they _took_ her. They took my Luna."

Olive opened her mouth to tell him they really needed to go, but he continued.

"My Luna." Now he was staggering toward them and she wished she had her own wand clutched in her hand and not Hermione's. This would not be a good time for a curse to backfire. When Xeno raised a hand to push back Potter's hair, Olive turned, looking out each window and for another door to escape through. Her heart was pulsing through her throat, her hands shaking. "But, it's really you they want," Xeno said to Harry, voice turning dark.

"Who took her, sir?" Potter asked.

Olive's breath hitched in her throat, her whole body tensing as her head whipped around.

_'Who do you think took her, you fucking idiot? She's dead, what does it matter?'_

Her stomach clenched when she saw the word forming on his lips, no time to stop him.

 _'Trap!'_ her mind screamed at her, _'Taboo!'_ But, she was unable to do anything except brace for the oncoming storm.

"Voldemort."

The same instant there was a screeching noise and their heads whipped around to the windows, seeing black trails of smoke whisk through the sky toward them at an alarming rate.

 _'No, no, no,'_ Olive panicked, breath caught in her throat, _'It wasn't supposed to go like this!'_

They barely had time to duck before the curses came flying through the windows, Olive letting out a shrill shriek of surprise when she hit the floor and something exploded above her head.

_'I can't die like this, I haven't seen Scabior die yet, no, please!'_

Everything was exploding around them, bright flashes of light filling the whole house. The three were crawling, feeling out for each other in the confusion, flinching away from bits of flying glass. Olive's ears were ringing so loud that she clenched her eyes shut for a moment. It was all too much and her vision was swimming.

 _'Please, I can't die yet,'_ she was thinking to anything out there listening. _'I didn't come this far to die now.'_

Outside the ringing in her ears, she could hear Xeno in the yard, screaming up at the attackers.

 _'Kill him,'_ she thought, crawling through glass and bits of flying paper. _'Fucking kill him, he deserves it, not me.'_

Water splashed all over her back when the sink exploded, the loud noises filling every break her ringing ears gave her. They were close now, the three of them, all reaching out while debris rained down from every direction. They managed to crawl forward another few inches and grasp hands, gone in a heartbeat, one of the boys able to apparate all three. If she'd tried something like that, she was sure she would have splinched again. That would have been too much to handle with someone else's wand. When they landed, Olive could still hear the echoing of the house falling in, spreading out among the forest they were now in. They laid still for a moment before stirring and when she looked around, she froze. She knew those bare, thin trees. Scabior had them camp there quite often and had designated it as the place to meet up if the Snatchers got separated.

"Treacherous little bleeder," Ron declared when he stood, anger and betrayal etched on his face. "Is there no one we can trust?"

 _'No,'_ Olive thought, trying to get on her feet as Harry brushed past Weasley.

"They kidnapped her because he supported me," Potter said, pulling his backpack off and slinging it to the ground. "He's just desperate."

They looked at each other for a moment while Olive got situated on her feet. She didn't want to be here, she wanted out. This was _not_ a place they wanted to set up camp.

"I'll do the enchantments," Ron muttered, heading down the hill past Olive. Let him put them up for now, they'd be safe for the time being and when they calmed down, she would convince them to move. Potter walked off in another direction, so she went away from both the boys, not wanting them to see the tremors racing down her arms. Olive sighed, heart still racing from the close call. She kept her eyes glued to the ground, wary of roots that would snag her.

Olive didn't hear Ron come to an abrupt stop. She didn't hear the Snatchers stand from hiding or Potter turn to see them surrounded. Her body was frozen, eyes locked on the boots in front of her. She knew the dagger poking out the top. Then she registered the plaid trousers. Even though she didn't want to look farther, she made herself finish the trek to his face, taking a nervous step backwards. Scabior cocked his head to the side, nostrils flaring in the slightest as he drew a long breath.

"Hello, beautiful," he said, eyes storming with darkness. Olive took another step backward, a strangled noise escaping her throat, and glanced over her shoulder to see if the boys had noticed him. She sucked in her breath when she saw they were surrounded. Her eyes found Greyback and he gave her a wide-eyed look. _"Run,"_ he mouthed.

All thought was gone now, but she still registered the smirk that crossed Scabior's face when her body gave a small convulsion as she turned to run. If the scent weren't enough, that confirmed it. Olive's ears were ringing, one long blaring noise that never seemed to stop as fear carried her feet off into the trees as fast as they could.

"Well, don't hang about," she heard Scabior declare. "Snatch 'em!"

Olive's heart was pounding in her throat as she dipped around trees and ducked beneath limbs, each breath a frantic whimper. Potter and Weasley were ahead of her and she could hear the Snatchers behind them, hear the noise of Scabior's dagger slamming against the leather of his boot with each step. That noise was right on her heels and she sped up, taking an abrupt left turn and vaulting over a log. When she heard someone land behind her and Scabior curse, she knew this was it, this was far too personal for Scabior to mess up. Olive ducked back to the right, heartbeat pounding in her ears, but she could hear him right behind her, practically feel his huffing breath on her neck.

Olive knew he was going to capture her.

Third time was his charm. Third time he might kill her.


	15. Chapter 15

_EDITED: 08/17/2015_

Adrenaline coursed through Olive. There were only three things she could hear - the twigs and branches snapping as they barreled through, Scabior's heavy breathing behind her, and the growing thrum of her heartbeat pounding in her ears.

In and out of trees, they weaved, branches and roots trying to snag them, but neither willing to fall. Around, the Snatchers would call out occasionally, a curse or in pain, but those things went unheard to the two of them. All else disappeared - the world consisted of just Olive and Scabior, the trees, the wind whipping their faces as they ran.

Olive dove right again, weaving past Potter who was headed the opposite way. Chains wrapped around the tree to her right, then her left, a heavy metallic clank that sounded like death. She raced past Weasley, who was struggling to continue, but he pushed himself harder. Scabior was right on Ron's heels, but he only had eyes for Olive.

When she heard Ron grunt, then a shuffle and a thud, she whipped her head around, slowing to try and help him. Scabior managed to trip over him, but was back on his feet in the blink of an eye, sprinting after Olive now that she'd slowed. Another Snatcher - Travers - was running right behind him, also shooting in her direction. The brush under her feet slid when she decided to leave Weasley behind and, for a sick moment, she thought she was going down. Olive pushed the bad thoughts away for leaving Ron, who had grown on her during her time with them. This was war, though. This was every man for himself.

A slick patch of leaves almost took her down again and so she spun, shooting black smoke from Hermione's wand to try and slow them down. Pain was coursing through her chest and neck, the Vow beginning to take hold on her for trying to escape him. Curses were flying everywhere, trees cracking and chains clanking, everything was pure madness and seemed even scarier with the way her heart was pounding through her whole body - so hard she thought it would give out at any moment. Each step that carried her farther away from Scabior drew her closer to death.

Olive wouldn't make it much longer, she was already slowing and clutching her chest when she barreled into a clearing, looking around with a pained look, unsure if she could continue. After she jogged a few more steps, heartbeat pounding through every inch of her, she saw the Snatchers had surrounded the clearing and were closing in through the trees.

 _'Stupid, stupid bitch,'_ she thought, a jerk seizing through her body. Olive had been outsmarted by a basic Snatcher formation, one she had practiced over and over again during the last few months. _'You're so fucking dumb.'_

Another shudder ran through her at that thought, then a third when Potter burst through the trees. Olive knew Scabior would torture her for even longer next time if he found out she'd been with Potter all this time. With another wary glance around to the enclosing Snatchers, she raised Hermione's wand and hit Potter with a Stinging Jinx, not trusting any darker magic with a wand that wasn't hers.

As soon as Potter hit the ground with an _oomph,_ Olive was next to him, kneeling and pulling the glasses from his face. The dazed look in his eyes cleared and he sucked in a breath through his swollen face. She eyed the Snatchers now, closing in, flooding the clearing. At least they hadn't been close enough to see who he was before his face distorted.

"The Hallows exist," he said, Olive huffing for breath and keeping her eyes on the Snatchers around them. "But, he's only after one of them, the last one - he knows where it is," he paused to take two quick breaths, "He's going to have it by the end of the night. You-Know-Who has the Elder Wand."

Olive never got the chance to reply - she was pulled away from Potter by the back of her jacket. Scabior stumbled onto the scene behind Harry, bracing himself on a tree, eyes still glued on her.

"Don't touch her!" Ron said from behind, right as Greyback punched him in the gut.

"Leave him!" Olive screamed, wishing she'd had the chance to hit him with a Stinking Jinx, too. Scabior and Greyback would remember him without a doubt in her mind. One punch was just the beginning of what was to come for him escaping.

"Your boyfriend will get much worse than _that_ if he doesn't learn to be'ave 'imself," Scabior said, strutting out into the clearing as if he owned the whole forest. In a way, he did. This was his territory.

While Scabior had declared that Ron better behave, Olive screamed out and told Travers to get off her. Scabior had finished his sentence, but she noticed a smirk cross his face.

"What happened to you, ugly?" he said, once Greyback hoisted Harry to his feet. "Not you," he added with a grin to the werewolf, who threw him a look in return. "What's your name?" he continued.

Travers had Olive's arms pinned behind her back and each time she tried to get herself free, he jerked them tighter.

"Dudley," said Potter. "Vernon Dudley."

Olive didn't hear the rest of their conversation as Travers was whispering about the vile things he was going to do to her as she fought his grip. Scabior heard the threats, too, and ended whatever he was saying with an abrupt halt. For once, his heated gaze wasn't aimed on Olive, instead just over her right shoulder. When she felt her arms loosen from his grip a bit and Scabior's eyes move to hers, a jitter ran through her stomach, an unsettling reaction. Two strides was all Scabior needed to be in front of her, giving Olive a different sort of heated look - angry, loathing, longing.

"And what's your name, lovely?" he said, though she heard the cruelty in each syllable, the mocking of her disastrous plan. Scabior picked up the loose ends of her hair and bent to nuzzle his face in it, drawing a deep breath. Another jitter ran through her stomach and she looked to the trees in disgust with herself.

"Penelope Clearwater," she blurted, having no idea why the name came to her other than Clearwater had been kind to her during Olive's earlier years. That and she was half-blood at least. And Hermione would have been clever enough to use an alias. When he grinned up at her, a shudder ran down her spine. It spread to her stomach when he leaned in close to her ear.

"Are you sure you want to play these games, little kitten?" he asked, quiet enough that not even Travers could hear. Greyback did, though. Olive met the werewolf with wide-eyes, but there wasn't much he could do. The best he could come up with was jerking Harry's head back and pushing the hair from his forehead away.

_'No, no, no, what are you doing?!'_

"Dreagan, c'mere. I think this is Potter. Looks like 'is scar an' all, just a bit swollen."

A terrible shake took over her whole body when Scabior pulled her hair taut, forcing her face toward his. Olive had only ever seen him look that murderous one other time, the night in the snow when he tortured her. There was hatred in his eyes, disbelief, anger. A trace of betrayal.

It all made sense to Scabior now and he pushed Olive's head away with a grunt, turning his attention on the red-haired boy. If the other was Potter, this one must be the Weasley that was sighted with him. Oh, Olive was in _so_ much trouble. He could smell it now - the woodsy scent that had clung to Olive's skin when he'd _Imperio'd_ her at her house. It was this boy - this _Weasley_ \- he'd smelled on her. This Weasley who had mysteriously escaped from his tight bonds. This Weasley who called out not to touch Olive.

Scabior clenched his teeth, jealousy burning right through him. So, that was it, wasn't it? Olive was fucking this scrawny git. She probably _loved_ him. It made him feel sick. Olive was _his. His_ property, _his_ possession. Olive belonged to _him._

Without a word, he strode over and socked Weasley so hard that his hand went numb. Blood sprayed onto their clothes in little specks.

"Stop, _stop!"_ screamed Olive, Scabior twisting back toward her with a crazed expression.

"You better keep your fuckin' mouth shut," he said, heat creeping up his neck, "I'll deal with you later."

"You're wrong!"

Scabior watched her for a moment, the pleading in her face making him grow even angrier. She was probably just trying to stall to give her _boyfriend_ a break. At that thought he turned and socked the boy again, hoping she heard the low grunt that escaped the little git.

"You're such an _idiot!"_ she screamed. All the Snatchers, even the two boys they held captive, grew silent and held their breath. Olive felt Travers tighten her arms again and realized his whole body had stiffened. When Scabior turned and met her eyes, the murderous glare had grown even more frightening, but she wouldn't look away.

"Nobody talks to Scabior like that," said a Snatcher she wasn't familiar with.

 _"I do,"_ Olive said through clenched teeth, giving Scabior a look filled with as much anger as his. For once, she was still, no jerks running through her. The forest had grown quiet around them.

"Give her to me," Scabior demanded, crossing back over with a determined step. Travers shoved her into Scabior's arms, but she kept her eyes trained on his the whole time, not daring look away. "All you lot," he said to his men, "Watch these two gits while I go teach our little friend 'ere a lesson."

Weasley tried to wrestle out of the chains and arms of Snatchers, but Scabior apparated her away before either boy could get in a word of protest. Olive got only a split second to register that they were in his tent before he pushed her onto the wooden table, slamming himself down on top of her. His forearm was crushing her throat and his other hand snaked down between her thighs, clenching the denim in his fist, making her yelp out in pain.

 _"Who owns it?"_ he demanded, squeezing tighter with each word.

"Fuck off," she spat as well as she could, trying to pry his arm off her neck and kick him, but her legs were pinned beneath his. Olive thought he was going to explode at her words, his face growing tight. She'd never seen him this angry before.

"If you want to keep all your fuckin' teeth, you'd better answer me," he threatened, putting more weight on her throat. Olive gave a small noise of anguish when he squeezed the space between her legs as tight as he could.

"You're…hurting…me," she barely wheezed, unable to draw a proper breath. Tears were welling in her eyes from lack of air, her face beginning to turn a purple reddish color. The room danced around Olive, the edges of her vision mingling with blackness. Each attempted kick grew weaker and weaker until she stopped all together, her fingers fumbling on his arm, growing sloppy.

"I would'n 'ave to hurt you if you didn't run off and do this stupid shit," he said, pressing down even harder, no air reaching her lungs now. "Answer me, Olive, who owns you?"

Scabior watched her hands slide off his arm, but her drowsy eyes were still locked with his.

"Just say it and I'll stop," he continued, knowing there was no possible way she could speak, but enjoying how red her face was growing from the lack of oxygen.

"You," she mouthed, finally looking away. If Scabior had to assert his dominance over her every day to see the way her bottom lip trembled when she gave in, he would do it. He would keep Olive tied up in the tent if that's what it took to keep her by his side. Dark thoughts of Weasley touching his girl kept his forearm over her throat, but he lifted it enough for her to suck in a few wheezing breaths.

"Are you going to tell me what the fuck you were doin' runnin' off like that?" he demanded, the hand between her legs loosening grip, but remaining in the warmth it found there. "If you fucked that boy," he growled into her hair, "I will kill him slow and make you watch."

Fucking was something he understood. Feelings were not. If she loved that red-haired git, he didn't know what he would do. Just the thought made a black, raw emotion rise in his chest, a rage he had never known.

"I didn't fuck anybody," she said, eyes still searching for anything other than him.

"Did he kiss you?" Scabior asked, his forearm pressing down on her throat just the slightest more - not enough to restrict her breathing, but enough to get his point across. "Did his fingers crawl up your cunt while Potter slept?"

Jealousy was raging through him, thoughts moving to strangling the boy, beating his head off the ground, breaking every tooth in his mouth. Maybe he would have to cut Olive's face up so no one would ever try and steal her again, then he wouldn't have to feel like this anymore.

"Weasley never touched me," she said, keeping her eyes trained on the canvas ceiling above them. When his hand shifted between her thighs, goose bumps erupted down her arms and her stomach seemed to flip over. "He's not half as vile as you," she spat, new tears rising in her eyes, not understanding how her body could betray her for this monster on top of her. That was the vilest thing he ever did to her.

Scabior gave a satisfied smirk at her words. "And you know how _vile_ I'll be if I ever find out you fucked somebody else," he said, his arm pushing farther down on her throat, causing her to take sharp, shallow breaths. Clenching her teeth, she gave a quick nod.

"Did you let that wanker go? When we captured that radio lot?" he said into her hair and Olive shook her head, hands once again finding his arm and trying to push it up for more air.

"No," she breathed, glad he allowed her throat another half inch or so. "I wanted him captured. I was only supposed to be gone for the night, but he showed up and fucked all my plans. I got stuck and couldn't do anything."

Scabior narrowed his eyes at her, searching her face for a long moment, though he wasn't sure what he was looking for. "What plan?" he asked, a slight accusation in each word. Olive took the change in his tone as a good sign and was beyond relieved when she wrapped her fingers around his arm and he let her move it away from her throat. She kept her hands on him, though. If he decided to choke her again, she already had her hands under his arm for leverage and protection. "Change your fuckin' face," he added with a flourish of anger, "I can't stand looking at this girl anymore."

A lightbulb went off in Olive's head.

"I can't," she lied. "I've been stuck like this because changing back wasn't performing magic for my Snatcher duties." Olive refused to look at him - if she did, he would know she was lying in a heartbeat. Changing back to what she really looked like wasn't performing magic, it was undoing it. "I need your permission to change freely or it will kill me." Plans were already cooking in her head - how she would get away from him and somehow disguise herself with a false face and some heavy perfume. "It's not like I could fool you," she added, hoping to stroke his ego. "You knew exactly who I was today."

Scabior said nothing and so she finally _had_ to look up at him. There was still heat behind his eyes, but she was out of the danger zone. Still, her hands stayed on his wrist, knowing Scabior was as unpredictable as a roller coaster in the dark - up and down, angry and laughing, left and right, murderous and content.

"You can change whenever you want," he said, never tearing his eyes from her. "I don't buy into that bullshit about mudbloods stealin' magic anyway."

Olive fought as hard as she ever had to keep a smile from crossing her face. _'You really are a fucking idiot,'_ she thought, morphing her face back to her own. The rest, she left as Hermione. Scabior was going to get to the root of her original plan, but a new one was cooking in her brain and, if he agreed, she would be Hermione again soon enough.

"Good," he said, eyes drifting down to her lips as they so often did. He used to do that to Lysia and it made her angry. Olive didn't seem to mind - maybe she wouldn't mind if he _did_ make her kiss him. Lysia was never a match for him, though she thought she was. That's why she was buried in a hole somewhere. Olive, though - Olive could hold her own. Olive was far more thought-consuming than Lysia. He'd never lost sleep over Lysia like he had Olive. He'd never gotten so angry at Lysia's absence that he broke things and tortured people. But, Olive did that to him. Olive did a lot of things to him that he didn't understand.

"Now, tell me about this plan," he said, eyes breaking from her lips back to her face. When he saw she still wasn't looking at him, the hand from between her legs snaked up to her jaw, forcing her head in his direction.

"I thought maybe if I brought you Potter, you wouldn't be so terrible to me," she lied, eyes straining to look elsewhere. Anywhere but at him.

"Look at me so I can tell if you're lying," he said, though the anger was draining from his voice. His thumb slipped up and ran over her bottom lip, thoughts preoccupied once again with her mouth. When she looked over at him, he tore his eyes away and met her own.

"When we captured Weasley, I wondered why he was alone," she explained, heat rising to her cheeks after how she saw the way he looked at her lips. This didn't go unnoticed to Scabior, who let his free hand brush over her cheek as he pushed Hermione's bushy hair away from her face. He said nothing, though, and for that Olive was thankful. "I snuck out after you and Greyback fell asleep."

Scabior, to her amazement, listened to her tell him about the conversation she had in secret with Weasley without a single threat interrupting. He watched her close, trying to detect the smallest lie, but a few times his eyes darted down to her lips while she talked.

"I impersonated their friend and went to find Potter," she said, skimping over the details of her alliance with Greyback. "When I got to him, I waited for the chance to bag him, but Weasley showed up and I was stuck. He's pureblooded, I couldn't hurt him."

Scabior gave an absentminded hum, fingers still stroking her hair. "You're not tellin' me something," he said, a disappointed scowl pulling at his lips. "I can see it in your eyes. How does this girl you impersonated fit into all this?"

Olive looked away again, but he jerked her by the hair, making her look at him. "Olive," he said, danger in each word, "You'd best tell me the whole thing or I might get cross with you again."

She wasn't sure if it was worth lying to him. If Greyback had thought her dead and told him their plan, Scabior already knew. This could be a trap she was waltzing right into.

"Their friend I was impersonating was the mudblood that had been seen with them," she said, caution in every word.

"And where is she really?" he asked, pulling her hair more taut.

"I had Greyback hide her for me," she admitted, the words barely crossing her lips. Scabior shoved her head away with a noise of disgust and Olive looked back to the canvas ceiling. Though she refused to even so much as glance at him, she could feel his eyes burning into her as he stood and backed away from the table.

"That fuckin' _wolf_ was in on this the whole time? Just lettin' me search place after place for you, actin' like he didn't know a damn thing?"

Fuck, she should have lied. Greyback was a better friend than she expected. When Scabior swiped at the plates next to her head, she flinched, thinking he was aiming for her. Olive's eyes darted to the side, seeing there was much more broken glass on the ground besides those few plates. She could see Firewhisky labels stuck to some of the jagged pieces.

"63 days," he continued, anger rising in his voice, "63 days you've been gone. Do you see this?" he said, pushing her cheek down toward the table and jabbing a finger to marks carved onto the surface. They looked like tick marks. "One for each day you've been gone!" he screamed, "And he's known all along!"

63 days? That was impossible. If she were gone 63 days, that would mean it hadn't been a week or two since she'd lost count…it had been 40 days.

"You're telling' me," he went on, voice shaking in rage, "That you went behind my back and plotted with that bastard you _know_ I hate?"

When she said nothing, he screamed at her so loud that she jumped, a tremor running down her arms.

_"If you plotted behind my back, you'd better admit it or I'll make you wish you had, Olive!"_

"I did," she squeaked, the fear evident in her voice. In one quick motion, he snatched her up from the table and began shaking her with such violence that the room was starting to spin.

 _"What - the - fuck - is - wrong - with - you?"_ he demanded, a sharp shake to each word before he growled and threw her to the ground. Pain stung through the palm of her hand, a sharp stab that made her cry out. When she lifted her injured hand, her other shot to her mouth to keep in a scream, which never passed her pursed lips. Scabior heard it though. He heard the panicked breathing, but he couldn't see her hand.

"Quit bein' a baby, get the fuck up," he said, crossing his arms and fighting the urge to kick her.

"Get it out," she said into her palm, clenching her eyes tight. "Scabior get it, please, I'm going to be sick, get it out!"

Scabior shifted on his feet, unsure what was happening. It was the first time Olive had ever asked him for help and the despair in her voice made his blood run cold. "What? What is it?" he asked, taking a step closer and seeing blood, but still not her hand. When she held up her arm, he saw the red running down her pale skin and clenched his teeth. A large piece of glass from one of his Firewhisky bottles had gone clear through her palm, the jagged point sticking out the back of her hand a good two inches.

"Get it out, get it out, _get it out!"_ she was screaming, bouncing her legs, beginning to lose herself to panic.

"Calm down," he said, all traces of rage gone as he knelt beside her, "Don't look at it, I'll get it out. Find something and don't look away from it."

Olive's breaths were short, jagged. "Stop," he ordered, reaching for her hand, his palm getting sticky with her blood. "You're gonna pass out, stop breathin' like that."

"Get it the fuck out of my hand," she said, near hysterics, finding the patch of his reddish hair and keeping her eyes there like he said. When his free hand grazed the piece of glass, it wiggled in her hand and she let out a muffled scream. "Fucking hit me," she said, "Knock me the fuck out, I can't do this. Just hit me once really hard."

This was a part of Olive he'd never seen. Some part of him stirred, memories of her in the bath at her house, the way she was dependent on him to wash her. Others parts of him stirred, too, parts that he didn't know existed. Shame. Guilt. Scabior had pulled his hand away, the other gripping her injured hand at the wrist to hold it still. It was all her fault, though. If she'd never of run off, there wouldn't be broken glass all over the place.

"I'm not going to knock you out," he said through grit teeth. "Now, you've been through worse than this." It didn't make him feel any better knowing he was the one who had put her through worse.

"My hand is impaled on a giant fucking piece of glass," she spat, trying to concentrate on the patch of his red hair, but her vision was getting jumpy. "Scabior, I'm going to pass out," she declared, the room swimming.

"No-no-no-no-no," he said, catching her as she swayed forward, glad they were on the ground.

"I am," she said, face growing quite pale. Scabior grunted and scooped her up, not liking how light she felt compared to the last time he'd lifted her up when he found her out in the snow.

"Just stay right here with me," he said in a low voice, carrying her back to the bed. "Just keep breathin', I'll get it out."

"Do you see why I don't tell you anything?" she said, blame laced in each word. "You do this shit." Scabior gave no reply, instead laying her down on their bed as easy as he could, minding her hand.

"At least now if you pass out, you won't fall and hit your head," he muttered, taking another look at the glass.

"As if you'd even care," she said, glaring up at the ceiling. Scabior's eyes shot down on her and she could feel it, but she didn't dare look at him. Sickness was rolling in her stomach at the thought of the glass through her hand and her palm was burning like nothing she'd ever felt before, a different pain than the _Crucios_ he'd hit her with over and over. Scabior was silent for a long moment.

"Do you know why I looked and looked for you?" he said, voice even. "For two months and I looked every day." His hand and the glass were forgotten for a moment, though he still gripped her wrist in his hand of steel. A different anger was rising in him, an anger to justify himself.

"Probably so you could beat me around and get off on it," she spat, the pain in her palm making her teeth clench.

"I thought somebody took you," he said, voice ringing through the silence of the tent. "I was sure somebody stole you from me. I didn't think you were stupid enough to go runnin' off with the Vow on you, but, as always, you had to be a snarky little shit and prove me wrong. No, I thought you were hurt or dead. I thought somebody I'd wronged might be holdin' you hostage to get back at me. That shit happens to Snatchers all the time. Mudbloods escape and go after someone close to get back at 'em for killin' their friend or their wife or whoever. So, yeah, I get cross with you and fly off the handle, but don't you ever think I'd let someone else lay a fuckin' hand on you. And if they did, I would _torture_ 'em until they didn't know their own fuckin' names. I was on a war path and you were off havin' adventures with Harry fuckin' Potter. What the fuck is wrong with you, Olive? Don't you have any idea how dangerous that was? You're lucky it was my unit that stumbled on you first."

There was no ringing in her ears and it made the silence deafening. The quiet stretched and stretched, filling the entire room, suffocating her. He thought she was hurt, he thought she was dead. He hadn't been chasing her down to capture her, he'd been chasing her down to rescue her. Just the thought made Olive feel more suffocated.

"Yes," she said, voice dry. Olive let her eyes fall from the ceiling to him. "How very _lucky._ Now if you'll kindly remove this giant fucking _glass sword_ from my hand, we can go back to you beating me silly, back to fucking _normal_ because I can't handle you saying shit like that."

"Do you hate yourself so fuckin' much that you can't handle the thought of someone being worried about you?" he spat, voice rising in the slightest.

"I don't hate myself," she said, voice raising to match his. The pain in her hand was growing and she avoided looking at it the best she could. "I hate _you._ And you _hate me."_

Olive did hate herself, though. She hated what she had become. She hated that she beat Walrich to near death, that she'd tortured Hermione. She hated how his worry for her made her stomach jump, how aware she was of his hand on her wrist, of how close they were now. She hated how this man was responsible for her father's death and she'd actually missed him while she was gone. The fights, the food, the warmth at night - she missed it all and didn't even realize it until now.

"I'm not going to apologize," he said in a stubborn voice.

"Good," she said, "Because we're a no-apologies pair, remember? You got cross with me the last time I apologized."

A pair. It sounded nice to both of them, though neither would ever admit it to the other. Scabior thought of that night in the muggle motel room when he thought he'd have to kill her, how he'd muttered apologies in her hair after she was unconscious.

"No apologies," he agreed with a tense nod, turning his attention back to her hand before the conversation got out of hand. Feelings were not something to be discussed with either of them. Both were in uncharted waters there.

Olive returned her gaze to the ceiling, biting back the bile in her throat each time the glass wriggled and pain shot through her hand.

"Just hurry up and do it," she said through clenched teeth, eyes scrunched shut.

"I can't," he said in a concentrated voice. "It's all the way through your hand, I don't know if you've ripped any tendons and I don't want to do more damage."

"Shut the fuck up," she said in a sickly tone. "Don't talk about tendons when I've got a giant piece of glass through my hand."

"No apologies," he said in a smart tone. Olive could hear the smile in his voice and, despite the pain and near hysteria, couldn't help it when the corners of her own mouth perked up.

"Fuck off," she breathed, though the grin was evident in her tone, too. Olive thought maybe she was also like a roller coaster - up and down, angry and smiling. Or maybe she was just along for Scabior's ride, giving him back whatever he doled out. Either way, they were a pair. The thought made heat rise to her face. It was a few minutes more before he spoke again.

"Do you want me to tell you what I'm going to 'ave to do or do you just want me to do it?" he asked. Out of the bottom of her eyesight, she saw him reach into his boot and she nearly shot off the bed, but he held her tight.

"That depends, what are you going to have to do?" she blurted, eyes wide at the dagger in his hand. "Cut my fucking hand off and call it a day?"

"A piece broke off," he said, "I'm gonna have to get it out with this."

Olive's eyes shot down to her hand, which was bleeding from an open wound. The long piece of glass was laying on the bed.

"You've already gotten it out?" she asked, shocked. Still, she looked away from the gaping gash in her palm, stomach rolling.

"Yeah," he said, pulling her hand toward him again. Olive was dumbfounded. Other than a few pinches and stings here and there, she'd felt nothing. Had she been alone, she would have gone full panic mode and just ripped it out.

"I just…I didn't feel much. I thought it would hurt more."

Scabior didn't answer and when she felt another sting in her palm, she knew he was concentrating. The knot in her throat grew, feeling his rough fingers around her wrist. Olive tried to swallow it _and_ the thought, a new wave of self-loathing washing over her.

"Got it," he said, releasing her wrist and leaning back with a long breath. "No major damage," he said, "Let me grab the Dittany."

Olive laid in amazement at how simple it had been for him to get the glass out. When he returned, he used the little dropper to close the wound. It wouldn't completely heal, of course, but the new skin that grew would keep it closed for now.

"You did better than I would have," she admitted, making a fist and grimacing at the dull pain that shot through her hand.

"My Aunt Lottie was a Healer," he said with a shrug. "She raised me, was always patchin' me up from fights an' the like. She was really good, could even make things appear out of nowhere, symptoms and stuff. Got me out of a lot of trouble. One time she even gave me this potion that made me bruise real easy an' made it look like the other kid beat me up real bad so I would look better in court. Even tried to get me out of my Azkaban sentence, but…" his voice trailed off. "Didn't work out."

Olive wasn't sure what to say. This was the first time he'd ever talked to her about his family, other than his brother hitting him on the head and causing the discolored streak of hair. The idea seemed ridiculous - Scabior couldn't have ever been a child. He simply existed, no parents, no family, just him.

"She sounds like a handful," Olive said, watching him, the way his eyes had gone far away, like he was looking at something in the distance.

"She was," he said, finally coming back to the present and looking at her. "Died a few months into my prison sentence."

A beat of silence passed between them.

"No apologies," said Olive, looking away and toward the kitchen. "So, here's my plan," she continued, wanting to steer the conversation away from the odd truth that Scabior had a family and wasn't simply some being that just existed. "Greyback's going to be pissed, I promised him my share of the gold. It's not going to be near as much with all these extra men wanting their cut."

Only a slight lie. Olive had promised Greyback _all_ of the gold, but he was going to have to get over it. There was nothing to be done, their plan fell to shit.

"You're not allowed to be friends with him anymore," Scabior said, voice stern.

"I didn't figure," she said in a dry tone, eyes still trained on all the broken glass and blood in the kitchen floor. "I was no more a friend to him than I am to you. I just used him."

It was true. Now that their plan had gone to hell, Olive was scrambling for her own good, not thinking about him. If Scabior got to bag Potter, what did she care if it meant she got to live another day. In the end, she wasn't playing for either of their teams, she was playing for her own.

"I have no need for friends, anyway," she continued. "I don't care who I have to hurt. This has been between _us_ since the very beginning." Now she looked at him, face set in a determined expression, though it lacked the usual hatred. "And it will end that way."

Scabior crossed the distance between them, scooping her chin up in one hand, the other brushing the frizzy hair back out of her face for the umpteenth time. There was no violence in his grip. The closeness of him, the patch of reddish hair she could see just from the corner of her sight, the smell of stale cherry cigarettes, they all made her heart beat in a funny way.

"And until then," he said, watching how the pink coloring flooded her cheeks and the way her pupils dilated when he look down at her, "It's you and me against everyone else."

"Deal," she said and he saw the edges of her lips curl up. It made him want to kiss her, but he didn't dare. "Now give me a cigarette and let's talk about bagging Potter."

A half hour later, they apparated back to the others. Olive had redone her guise as Hermione and Scabior thought it best to leave the dried blood down her arm, just for added effect. Olive was bound and looked to be beaten, though the busted lip and bruising eyes were of her own design. Scabior was carrying her and dumped her on the ground near Potter and Weasley, just like they'd decided, Olive thinking it would be best to remain as Hermione until they delivered the boys. If they found out they'd been deceived, it would be a fight the whole way there. The way Scabior dropped her wasn't as rough as he'd made it look. His hand had cushioned the fall on her hip and they shared a glance before he pulled away.

"Took ya long enough, did'n it?" Greyback asked in a grumpy demeanor. There was something of distrust in his eyes as they'd lingered too long on the two, catching that Scabior had cushioned the fall.

"You know I get greedy from time ta' time," Scabior said, throwing a triumphant look at Weasley. "One time is hardly enough."

The men all laughed and jeered while Potter and Weasley shot looks to Olive, the latter's ears growing red at an alarming rate.

"Don't worry about it now," she whispered to them. "I'm okay, let's just get out of this." Olive didn't like the way Greyback was staring at her through narrow eyes. When Scabior turned his back to bark orders, Olive mouthed to the wolf, "I'll give you my gold," with an apologetic look.

There was nothing else to be done. Their plan had fallen apart and there was no way Greyback would have all the gold now, unless he took Potter and Weasley while the others were unaware and betrayed them all. Knowing this was a real possibility, a shudder snaked up her spine. That would look really bad to Scabior after how angry he'd been earlier over Greyback.

The werewolf made no move to grab the boys, though. He only stared at her through those narrowed eyes and turned away with an annoyed grunt.

_'He knows.'_

Olive's stomach twisted. Greyback _knew_ something had happened with Scabior while they were gone. He knew the dynamic had changed. But she didn't know that Greyback was about to change it again, later when they were at Malfoy Manor.

Things had gone awry. Olive noticed the way Greyback and Lestrange had shared a look, the same sort she had shared with Scabior when he'd cushioned her fall. It was her turn to narrow her eyes. Then things went _really_ bad. Lestrange flipped on the Snatchers over the sword Weasley had and they all ended up knocked out, being levitated out of the parlor to the outside courtyard. Even Scabior. Potter and Weasley were dragged out to some unknown place, as well, but when Lestrange said to leave her, Olive knew something was up. This was fucking _planned._

Olive's eyes shot back to Greyback, his own expression having grown quite greedy. She was too afraid to look away from him, not even for a split-second to glance at Draco who stood in the corner silent.

"Is this the one?" Lestrange asked, her clunky heels clacking on the marble floor as she crossed to stand in front of Olive.

"Yeah, that's her," Greyback answered in his gruff voice. Olive's nerves were on end and her eyes flitted to the door they'd just taken Scabior out through. Only for a second, then her eyes went back to bouncing between Greyback and Lestrange.

"Let me see your face," the woman demanded with an almost-crazed look in her eye. Olive did as she was told and revealed her face, heart hammering while the ringing grew in her ears. Internal alarms were going off, alerting her to the danger she was in.

 _'Scabior, wake up,'_ she pleaded mentally. _'There's something wrong here, wake up.'_

The woman's teeth glistened almost as bright as Greyback's when the wide smile broke her face. "You're a pretty little thing," she said, finger tracing Olive's splinch wound. "I like a girl with some battle scars. You've been very naughty, though, running off like that. The Dark Lord doesn't tolerate traitors."

"I didn't run off," Olive said, trying to quell the panic from seeping into her voice. Her sight switched to Greyback. "Weasley showed up, I was outnumbered. I was waiting, but never got the chance!"

She was glad the two boys were already locked away somewhere and didn't watch the reveal of her betrayal. They would find out sooner or later, but they'd grown on her and she wouldn't have been able to stomach the looks of disgust they'd have given her.

 _"Liar!"_ Lestrange screamed, taking a fist full of Olive's hair and drawing their faces close together.

"I swear! I took an Unbreakable Vow! I can't run from Scabior or it would kill me - I swore to be in the Dark Lord's service!"

Bellatrix studied the girl with a careful glance, dissecting every inch of her face for a lie. When she found none, she shoved her head away with a huff.

"It's no matter, you won't be alive very long after the wolfie has his fun," she mocked, the gleaming grin back on her face. "Greyback, the gold will be in your vault tomorrow. Bring me the other mudblood, I've got some words with the little cunt about my Gringotts vault. After that, you're free to go," Lestrange swatted a hand toward Olive, "Take your riffraff with you. If you don't kill her, bring her back. She might still be some use, spending all that time with Potter."

The ringing in Olive's ears blocked out most of what was said between Lestrange and Greyback after that. Her heart was hammering in her throat, making it difficult to breathe. Olive's eyes were in constant motion - the door, Greyback, Lestrange, Draco, his parents, back to the door, over and over.

 _'Scabior, you said you wouldn't let them hurt me,'_ she thought, eyes on the door. Then back to Lestrange, then Greyback, then Draco, who wouldn't look at her. Neither would Mr. Malfoy, but his wife was staring right at her, a vacant expression on her face. No time to dissect, her eyes went back to the door, then Greyback who was staring at her with that greedy expression again. It made the chains seem like they were digging even tighter into her skin.

When he picked her up and threw her over his shoulder, the room spun before her eyes. The way he laid her hurt her stomach and she tried to shift, but his sharp claws dug into her leg and she was rooted in fear of being infected.

"How long have you been planning on betraying me?" she spat once they were into a long corridor away from the others.

"Since before you even came up with your plan," he said with that throaty laugh of his. The only made Olive's stomach twist further, her mind going to Christmas Eve in Diagon Alley - how close Scabior's face was, how serious, when he told her not to trust the werewolf.

"I thought we were friends," she managed, risking his claws to readjust herself. It was a hollow statement, she knew. He'd used her just as she'd used him. But, there was always a chance of playing with his guilt long enough to break free. The werewolf only laughed again, though, dumping her next to a door, not near as gentle as Scabior had been with her earlier. With a quick flick of his wand, the door clicked, revealing a steep staircase. Greyback left her on the floor and descended.

Perhaps a minute later, she heard feet shuffling down the corridor and whipped her head in the direction they'd just come. Draco was standing there, having just seen her, and now turned the other direction.

"They're going to kill me," she whispered, glad to see his foot pause in midair.

"I'm not supposed to talk to you," he whispered back, keeping himself turned away from her.

"I'll do anything, _please,_ just loosen the chains and I'll do the rest."

Draco began to turn, but decided against it and went back to looking the other direction. His brow had been tucked for the second she saw his face, his mouth drawn down in a grimace.

"There's nothing I can do against a werewolf. I'm not insane," he said in a strained voice, then walked away from her, leaving Olive there in her chains. She watched her last hope walk away and, though the knot in her throat grew, she understood. She would have walked away, too.

The heavy footsteps ascending the stairs brought a new level of dread into Olive. This was it, then - she was going to die. It seemed almost anticlimactic that it wasn't at Scabior's hand. Death wasn't even what bothered her, it was more that Scabior had been right about Greyback all along. Such a silly thing to be fretting about when she was about to die, but the thought of Scabior proving himself right made her teeth clench more than the thought of dying. She wasn't sure what the two of them were - not friends, not enemies, one second screaming at each other, the next sharing cigarettes. A pair. But, despite last seeing him on good terms, it made her sick to think he would get the last laugh.

The thudding footsteps grew closer to the door, but she saw the feet of someone being carried first. Another two heavy footsteps revealed it was Hermione, slung over Greyback's shoulder just as Olive had been minutes before.

"You promised to keep her safe," Olive protested, seeing how swollen and purple Granger's face was now.

"I lied," Greyback said in a gruff tone, smirking down on her and turning to deliver Hermione to Lestrange, as requested. Olive hated that Hermione refused to look at her.

With Greyback out of sight and Draco proving useless, she wriggled at her restraints, wincing at the pain in her palm. How had that only been an hour or so ago? It seemed years had passed.

 _'Fuck you, Scabior,'_ she thought with bitterness, seeing now that his words were wind, that no rescue was coming for her. Still, something ached in her chest for his assistance.

That assistance didn't come. Greyback did, though.

And when he saw that she'd gotten a hand free and was working on the other, he hit her harder with the back of his hand than Scabior could ever imagine doing with a closed fist. The ringing took over her ears and he hoisted her over his shoulder again. Just one hit and already she'd grown drowsy, the corridor distorting, one blur of motion as he spun her around to leave.

It wasn't until she was outside that she realized how pathetic she was being, all slumped over his shoulder like cargo on some pack mule. Damn it, if she was going out, she was going out with some dignity. The effect of the hit had begun to fade and she straightened herself up the best she could.

"What did I ever do to you?" she demanded. Greyback's shoulder dug into her stomach when he laughed, a grimace of pain crossing her face.

"You did'n do nuf'in, sweet'art," he said, passing through the gate of Malfoy Manor.

They both heard it at the same time, the huffed breaths, the boots crashing through the grass. Olive only saw Scabior darting toward them for the briefest second before Greyback turned her away so he could have a look. She didn't miss the look on Scabior's face, though, the hybrid of fear and anger. Something inside her chest leapt with hope. Greyback took a sudden step to the side, causing Olive to shut her eyes at the sudden motion, wincing when she clenched her fists and pain shot through her palm. Chains clanked and rolled in the grass, Scabior having missed his target.

 _"Put her dow-"_ was all she heard before the two were spinning, leaving Scabior behind for some unknown place. So close, so fucking close. When they landed with a thud, Greyback tossed her to the ground, a new jolt of pain attacking Olive's wrist, the same that was injured earlier, the same Scabior had held to pull out the glass.

"As I was sayin'," he continued, as if Scabior had never interrupted, "It ain't personal."

Olive was afraid to look up at him, but forced herself to anyway.

 _"What's_ not personal?" she snarled, not daring look away from the menacing man who towered over her. Greyback only grinned at her, those awful teeth gleaming in the fading sun.

"This goes one a' two ways. You already know if you try an' run, I'm faster. So you can either run an' I'll kill ya or you stay still and I'll leave ya for dead."

The silence of the unfamiliar forest surrounded her, not a single sound outside the two of them for as far as her ears could hear. Either way was death, then. But, she wasn't stupid.

"I'll stay still," she said through clenched teeth. When he unbound her and bent to run his sharp claws through the front of her shirt, Olive knew what he wanted. That, she could deal with. It was easier to separate herself from sex and go somewhere else after all the times Scabior had raped her. It actually released a knot of tension from her chest - now that fucking was all he wanted, her worries went to making it out of the forest afterwards having no wand.

Everything was clear now - the men had hated each other, though she wasn't sure what had passed between them. This wasn't personal, Greyback had said as much. This was a message. Olive's mind went to Scabior telling her earlier that sometimes mudbloods got back at the Snatchers for hurting someone they loved by taking someone from them in return. She wasn't sure what Scabior had done to the werewolf, but this was his retaliation.

In under a minute, Greyback had her shirt torn to pieces and her jeans down around her knees.

"Let me see all a' ya," he said, eyes roaming her with that same greedy look. "If I wanted to fuck that mudblood, I'd a' done it already."

Olive did as she was told, feeling her body morph and expand. Greyback watched, confusion and then excitement crossing his face.

"This'll be a first," he said with his throaty laugh. Olive tucked her brow, afraid to ask what he meant. The question was readable on her face and the amusement grew on his. "How long you been in that girl's body?" he asked, eyes gleaming as bright as his teeth. "You ain't even been out once, 'ave you?" Confused as ever, Olive shook her head.

"You really are a dumb cunt, aren't ya?" he said with another laugh, watching a jerk seize Olive at the harsh words. "Well, sweet'art, you're in for a bit of a nasty surprise," he said, tracing his claws along her stomach. It didn't feel right.

Olive nearly threw up when she looked down to see her pregnant belly beginning to balloon out between them.


	16. Chapter 16

_EDITED: 08/17/2015_

It wasn't just sex he had wanted.

Short rasps of breath were leaving Olive as she clawed at the ground, trying to get as far as she could from the spot where Greyback had nearly torn her apart. For two days, she'd been content to lay there and die. Death was welcome to the fire that burned inside her. On the third day, a fit of paranoia took her over and she crawled, inch by painful inch, away from where she'd laid. Greyback was long gone, having left her for dead as he promised, but the thought of him returning to finish the job made bile rise in the back of her throat and so she crawled and crawled. With one arm stretched in front of her, fist clenching the dead grass, she laid a forehead on the hard earth and cried out at the pain ripping through her body.

Away from her, in his familiar stretch of forest, Scabior sat still and looked at the campfire with a new level of hatred. Two days he'd looked, each seeming longer than the two months she'd been gone with Potter. Olive and Greyback were nowhere to be found. For all he knew, Olive was slashed to pieces and that fucking wolf was out there somewhere bragging about how he finally got even with him.

Something twisted in his stomach when a new possibility struck him. What if it had all been planned? What if it was all some ploy for Olive to run off with Greyback? He'd only told her she couldn't be friends with him, he'd never _ordered_ her. Scabior wondered if the Vow would kill her for that, hoping it would. Taking Olive away by force was bad enough, but if the werewolf manipulated her to go with him willingly, that was the worst of all. If that was the case, he wished the slut dead so he could wash his hands of the situation and never have to feel this hopeless anymore.

Something irked at his insides, though, telling him Olive hadn't gone with Greyback of her own will. Not with the way she'd looked up at him from Greyback's shoulder, hope filled in her eyes for that last brief second he got to see her.

Then they were gone. Just like that, in the blink of an eye. Greyback took his Olive away.

He should have known that day when they first came across Walrich. Scabior had never seen Greyback miss a shot and yet, somehow, Olive ended up bound. The werewolf had to have been testing the waters - he'd had something planned all along. Maybe he meant to take Olive away from him that day, maybe his plan got messed up when Walrich got away or he decided the timing wasn't right. The thought made a shiver run down his spine as he pulled another cigarette from his pack, lighting it with a fist clenched around his wand.

The same scene kept replaying over and over in his head, that small moment he saw her face, the glimmer of hope in her eyes before they disappeared. The sound of them apparating was one of the most horrible noises of his life and he knew it would haunt him until he found her. Dead, alive, or with Greyback - it didn't matter. Not having closure would drive him mad.

Elsewhere, Olive was near giving up again, laying crumpled on the ground and sobbing into the grass. Yesterday, maybe even the day before, she morphed to hide her stomach, the sight of Scabior's brutality making her stomach turn.

The cool ground was no comfort. Everything was on fire. The dirt clung to her skin, mixing with sweat to make patches of mud on her arms and face. Even her blood seemed to scald her veins, burning her, cooking her from the inside out. A constant layer of sweat made her hair stick to her neck, but it hurt too much to raise an arm and move it.

She recalled with another sob that Greyback, at some point during her torture, pressed her face into the dirt, the blood from her broken nose mixing with the ground to make a dark mud. He'd slammed into her from behind, a place not even Scabior fucked her, and she screamed out in pain while he mocked her, calling her a mudblood.

"Scabior, why aren't you helping me?" she choked out, half-delusional from the fever. A violent convulsion took her over and Olive screamed out, face pressed against the scratchy grass.

Scabior heard nothing. He was two countries away, staring at the campfire with a horrible image in his mind of her laying lifeless somewhere. This was what he got for Lysia. This is what Greyback did to make them even. Heat was beginning to creep up his neck, the hatred he felt for the werewolf burning through him like never before. Greyback should have killed Mira. _That_ would have made it even. Olive was just convenient for him and the wolf knew it would hurt him more. With a scream, he threw another bottle at the tree, watching it smash into a thousand little pieces and scatter into the grass. His head was pounding and had been since he woke up in the Malfoy's courtyard and heard Olive being carried off.

"Somebody _help_ me," Olive yelled out, drawing ragged breaths at the overwhelming heat coursing through her. Olive's other arm shot out, clutching at the grass and drawing her body another few inches forward. In the beginning, she'd worried about being found naked, especially if it was a man who found her, but she didn't care now as long as anybody would just _help._ Anything to stop the pain.

Her stomach gave a fierce growl, but the pain in her belly was nothing compared to the fire reigning through her body, through her organs, through her bones.

Again, she started sobbing, collapsing on the grass. Why the _fuck_ didn't she listen to Scabior? Why didn't she take his warning seriously? Now there was no mistaking the truth that there were far, _far_ worse people in the world. Scabior never made her feel like she'd caught fire. Scabior never even lied to her, that she could remember. He did awful things, yes, but he never told her he wouldn't. Even the dreams of Scabior, which started up again while she slipped in and out of consciousness, didn't disturb her as much as they had the first time she had one, all those months ago. They'd become her only escape - when she slipped off into dreams, he was always there. Sometimes he pulled the glass from her hand, sometimes he just bent his lips to her forehead. Once he even tortured her again, Olive dreaming of that night in the snow. Even that pain paled in comparison to the torture Greyback had set upon her body.

 _"-what he fuckin' deserves,"_ the werewolf had ranted, ramming into her from behind, her screaming heard by no one except him. _"I'll fuckin tell 'im how I tore ya apart before I murder 'im'. Watch 'is face go all pale while I kill 'im slow."_

Olive sucked in a breath, hope hammering in her chest for the first time since she'd seen Scabior barreling toward her rescue. Her hands darted out into the grass, feeling for a wand that wasn't there. In her excitement and disorientation, she'd forgotten Scabior took both her and Hermione's wands before they went to Malfoy Manor.

When she remembered that, the hope fizzled inside her. Not completely, though. If she could do it - if she could apparate without a wand - she could find Scabior or help elsewhere. There was a reason now, a way around the Vow. Greyback was going to kill Scabior. And Scabior was a pureblood. As long as she was protecting a pureblood to secure the bloodline, the Vow wouldn't kill her. And even if she was miscalculating, even if she broke her Vow, death had to be better than the misery Greyback bestowed upon her.

Maybe Greyback had already killed Scabior. Then she would be free of the Vow anyway. Olive knew that should make her happy, but it made a new pain run through her chest. Not what Greyback had done to her, not the Vow, something new. A panic, a yearning. Under normal circumstances, she would have been disgusted with herself, but she focused on that horrible feeling, imagining Scabior lying dead somewhere. Where would he be? Where would Greyback have found him? The only place she could think of was Scabior's meeting spot, where the Snatchers met when they got separated. Clenching her eyes until colors began dancing in her vision, Olive concentrated as hard as she could on those skinny trees, those rolling hills. A familiar squeezing sensation came over her and she focused harder, giving a scream as if it may push her there.

It did.

Olive was spinning, a new pain raking down her arm as she landed with a distinct _pop._

"Fuck!" she heard before she could even open her eyes. Footsteps crashed through the brush, taking an eternity to reach her. The tension released in her chest, that awful feeling disappearing. It was him. It was Scabior, she knew his voice anywhere. Somewhere inside, a fleeting thought passed her, glad she'd hidden her stomach a few days past. That was another problem for another day, now that she would _live_ another day.

Rough hands grabbed her naked arms, turning her over. Olive heard him draw a breath when her face became visible to him. She knew it was bad. Beyond the fire that burned through her, everywhere ached. Greyback had pummeled her face so hard it was a wonder she'd lost no teeth.

"Olive?" he said, an underlying note of panic in his voice. She had the intention of answering him, but when she opened her mouth and eyes, only hysterical sobbing came out. Again, she was taken by the worst kind of convulsions, the sort that ravaged her whole body, not just the slight twitches. Olive could feel him brushing the hair back from her face, calling out her name a few more times.

"Sweet'art, you've splinched bad again, don't move. I've got to get the Dittany."

 _"No!"_ she screamed, trying to reach out for him. When she saw the raw skin, the blood pouring down her outstretched arm, she tilted her head and heaved with another sob. There was nothing in her stomach left to vomit, only acids that burned her throat and nose.

"Olive, you're bleeding' out, just wai-"

"Don't leave me," she pleaded, crying harder now. Scabior didn't understand the feelings raging through him, so he pushed them aside and ran into the tent, fingers shaking while he threw vial after vial aside from his first aid kit. _There._ His fingers found the Dittany and he was outside in an instant, kneeling beside her. Olive was so disoriented that she hadn't noticed he'd gone.

"It's going to sting a little," he half-lied. It was going to burn like hell. The girl in front of him was unrecognizable, her face a swollen, purple mass. There were deep cuts covering her, dirt and leaves tangled in her greasy hair. If it hadn't been for the honeysuckle, he'd never of known it was her. But, her scent was tainted with others - blood, dirt, Greyback, _sex._ When he laid a hand on her arm to steady it, Olive's flesh burned under his palm.

Scabior froze, a strangled noise escaping his throat. With a panicked huff, he looked her over, every inch of her, dissecting each cut. Then he saw it. There, hidden behind smeared blood. There across her stomach - four deep claw marks.

"Just hold still," he told her, though his own hands were shaking in a newfound rage. When the Dittany hit her wound, Olive screamed louder than he'd ever heard her scream before. Even louder than the night in the snow. Scabior wished he could tell her that was the worst part, but he wouldn't lie to her.

"I'm taken' you inside," he said, scooping her up before she could protest. Olive cried out at the movement and Scabior felt an unimaginable heat in his arms, a heat he knew all too well. She continued sobbing, half-delirious when she clutched the front of his shirt.

"Every-thing h-hurts," she managed, the convulsions beginning again. Scabior shushed her the best he could with the storm of thoughts and emotions running through his head. He took her to the bathroom and laid her in the cool tub before running the taps as cold as they would go. Olive cried harder, covering the sides of her head with cut and bruised arms, the sound of water pounding in her ears. If Scabior wasn't sure about Greyback's scratch before, then he was now. The sounds were unbearable when he first changed, too.

"Everything'll make your head hurt for a few days," he said, scooping some water in his palms and trying to get the blood and dirt off her. Now that he had her up close and undressed, Scabior saw how thin Olive's hands and face had grown. As if on cue, her stomach growled. "How long's it been since you ate?" he asked. Scabior knew he could be cruel, nasty, manipulative, but he couldn't stand the idea of Olive being hungry.

"I don't know," she croaked, hands still over her ears. The cool water seemed to be bringing her down from the hysteria. "It was a few days before I saw you last." Olive shifted, grunting in pain and avoided looking at the water, which was a dirty pink color. "They started burning the forests," she said, brow tucked from the pain, though the heat was easing. "There was no food anywhere."

Scabior said nothing. While she'd been gone with Potter, his unit had taken to doing as the other Snatchers had - holding small sieges to burn out the mudbloods. Food wasn't something he'd thought of - the fire was only to smoke them out of hiding. The Snatchers might kill them, sure, but a man had to have a code and starving was a far crueler death than being killed quickly. A terrible feeling hit him, memories flooding him of life before Aunt Lottie took him, of empty cupboards and stolen bread.

"Do you want me to get that stew you like from the pub? With the beef an' barley?"

Olive's eyes clenched, his words adding more pain. Of course he remembered. Of course he made it harder for her to hate him.

"You can't go," she said, glad when he reached over and turned the taps off. The roaring in her head stalled, though a dull ache continued. "We need to move camp," she continued, tilting her head and looking up at him.

Scabior narrowed his eyes, scanning her face. It was hard to read her when she was all swollen and bruised.

"Olive, how are you not dyin' right now? Why 'asn't the Vow killed you for usin' magic?" Instead of answering right away, she dipped her hands into the cold water and pressed them to her face with a shudder of pain. Scabior was relieved the cool water had calmed her down, but there was still a grimace on her face. "I can't do anything for the inside," he added, knowing from experience that it felt like your bones and blood were on fire.

"Greyback means to kill you," she muttered, ignoring his second statement. "I came to warn you."

Silence, their only other friend, joined them. For a moment, Scabior almost pitied Olive. The fever, the venom, it makes you _feel_ like you're dying, but another day or so and she'd of sweat it out. She could have stayed where she was, let Greyback kill him, and lived out the rest of her life in freedom. But, she came back to him. She came back to someone who beat her, raped her, humiliated her, so she could warn him about Greyback. Though he knew Olive was only trying to survive, part of him hoped she came back because she didn't want him to die.

By then, the shakes were just tremors, so he took to digging the leaves from her hair.

"Where do you want to go?" he asked, glad he had her hair to focus on. Anywhere but her swollen face.

"Away," she whispered, leaning her head against the side of the tub so he didn't have to reach so far. For a disappointing moment, he thought she meant away from _him._ "Take me anywhere but the forest, I can't stomach looking at another fucking tree right now."

Something in his chest unclenched. She wanted him to take her away. She wanted him to _stay_ with her.

"First you're eating," he said, voice stern. That was not a suggestion, it was an order. It made her think of the beef and barley stew and her stomach growled again. Everything made sense now - how she'd craved the stew, how the nausea would roll over her. The way it was uncomfortable to hide her stomach, even now. Those few times her stomach had squirmed, it had to be the baby flitting around. And Hermione's jeans, how they pinched. It hadn't been that Hermione had lost weight - Olive's body was fighting her off, not wanting her to push down on the baby. Even now, unclothed, her belly was just the slightest bigger than usual. It wasn't enough for her to notice while she was in hiding, but now that she knew she was pregnant, there was no missing it.

Olive didn't even know how far along she was. How could she when she wasn't even sure of the month? In retrospect, she hadn't had a period in a long time, but that wasn't the sort of thing she kept track of anymore. Not when she had no concept of time - not when every day was filled with trying to survive. Now it would be even harder. Now she had two of them to keep alive.

A protective hand slid to her stomach, but Scabior thought she was only feeling at the wound Greyback had marred her with. Olive wondered if the claw marks killed the baby - she hadn't felt that squirming since before then. Or maybe she suffocated it with her disguise. Was she suffocating it right then, all because she was afraid for Scabior to know? Some dark part of her hoped the baby was dead already, if only so it wouldn't know this fucked up life. If it was still alive, she would fight tooth and nail to keep it that way, but the thought alone exhausted her.

It was no matter. Scabior would find out - she had to go into labor eventually. If it wasn't dead when it came out, she didn't doubt he would kill it soon after. There wasn't time for babies in their profession. And the thought of them as parents was even more terrifying than killing it. But, still, Olive would have to fight him and she would break her Vow if she had to. If the baby was dying, then so was she. It was half Scabior, but it was half her, too.

"Lean back," he told her, helping Olive dip her hair under the water. Olive thought of that time at her house, when he'd nearly drowned her. Scabior's fingers were gentle this time, though, rubbing the grit from her scalp. Olive didn't protest, not even a flinch or shudder rising at his touch. It made him feel disgusted with himself for being this kind.

"Don't start trusting me," he warned, wanting to pull her hair taut, but finding himself unable to hurt her when she was in this state. Olive just stared up at him, making his anger and confusion grow. Why wasn't she frightened of him anymore? Why wasn't she scared he would hold her under the water, like last time? He released her neck, leaving her to get up on her own. Olive tried to sit, grunting in the final push that returned her to leaning on the side of the tub.

"Who else do I have?" she asked, words haunting the narrow room.

Scabior blinked, watching her. For a moment his lips pursed, thinking of something to say. "Only me, I guess," he said, watching how her shallow breathing barely made ripples in the water.

"I trusted him," she said. "And this is what I get for that trust. I trusted myself to be a friend to Hermione, that mudblood girl. I tricked her and tortured her." Olive lifted her head, meeting his eyes. "I tortured her like you tortured me. And when I left her with Greyback, I tried and tried to make myself cry, but I couldn't. I _liked_ hurting her. I can't even trust myself anymore."

Scabior stayed silent, only reaching over to brush a few wet strands of hair from her forehead.

"And I even trusted Draco Malfoy," she said, just letting the words slip out in her delirium. "We fancied each other - he even kissed me once. Sometimes it made me feel like everything was going to be alright. But, do you know what he did? He could have set me free and he didn't. I _begged_ him, asked him to just loosen the chains and I would do the rest and he turned his back on me because he was afraid of Greyback." Olive drew a deep breath, getting herself worked up. "He just left me there to die," she said, betrayal sparkling in her swollen eyes. "And out of all fucking people, it was _you_ who came running after me. I laid there for three days and tried to be angry with you for not making it in time, for saying you wouldn't let anyone hurt me, but I couldn't because you were the only one who _tried."_

Olive looked away now, down to her toes, just because she couldn't stand looking at him anymore.

"You're the only person I can trust," she said, words feeling thick in her throat, like they didn't want to leave her mouth. "You never tricked me with pretty words like you have the other mudblood girls. You've always shown me what a monster you really are. All I have left to trust is that you'll be terrible to me."

A beat of silence passed between them, but Olive wasn't done. The words just kept running from her throat, spilling out against her will.

"You tried to save me twice, once when you thought someone took me and once when someone really did. Warning you about Greyback is payback for one. I still owe you the other. But don't you dare trust me, Scabior, because I _will_ murder you for the things you've done."

Scabior studied her. This was Olive - new, old, a third one - it didn't matter. This was Olive and she was back with him, back where she belonged. And she was right. She _could_ trust him. He would go through hell and high water for her and, if she had nothing else to trust, she could trust his predictable cruelty. But, to say he trusted her in return was laughable. Olive had escaped him twice, run off once, stolen his wand, plotted with Greyback behind his back, and he never knew how she would react to things. Even the small comfort she held in trusting he would be violent and cruel to her was something missed by him. Some days she was angry and fought back, other days she was compliant, and there were those few stretches when she just went off into a daze and his words to her went unheard.

"I'm not sayin' you won't kill me," Scabior admitted, knowing she had it in her. Olive was battered beyond repair and it wouldn't surprise him in the least if she killed him herself, knowing it would kill her, too. "But, until the end, we work together."

Together. _A pair._

Olive nodded, her head leaning back against the tub.

"I need a cigarette and some clothes," she said, sounding far more tired than she had just a moment ago, as if the conversation took most of her energy. The pained expression never left her face and he knew it wouldn't for at least a few days. Cold water would dampen the fire, but it would keep burning low. Scabior let out a long breath, chewing the inside of his cheek.

"The cigarette I can do. The clothes…" his voice trailed off. Olive scooted her head against the tub, craning her neck to look up at him with a tucked brow. "I got angry when you were gone," he said, not looking at her. "I burned all your things."

Olive wasn't sure if he meant the first time she was gone or the second and it really didn't matter. As sad as it was, she hardly cared. "Did you burn the things my Dad gave me?" she asked, voice surprisingly neutral.

"Yeah," he said, looking down and picking the dirt from under his nails. Olive's laughter was not what he expected, sick titters echoing against the water, magnified in the small space. For a scary moment, he thought he'd lost her again.

"Of course you did," she said, ghost of a smile tugging on her mouth. "Burn it all, burn the damn house down, I don't care, it makes it easier."

Scabior wasn't sure what she meant or even if she'd slipped back into delirium. Burn what house down? Her house?

"Makes what easier?" he asked, finally looking at her. Olive wasn't looking at him, though. Her eyes were closed, that half-grin in place. She only shook her head.

"Nothing," she muttered and when she opened her eyes, he saw clarity there. She wasn't delirious. Whatever she'd meant, she'd really meant. Scabior had no idea and was unsure whether to ask. He didn't know she meant things would be easier for her if she wasn't constantly reminded of her father. The way her heart beat around Scabior wouldn't seem so bad if the memory of her dad wasn't always lurking.

"I've still got these," he offered, digging in his pocket and pulling out the silver hoop earrings. Olive had taken hers off before the first time she went in search of Hermione, afraid she would forget, leave it in, and blow her disguise. Scabior leaned down toward the water, putting them in her hand.

"One is yours," she said, picking up a hoop with her free hand. "Come here. Together, remember?"

"Together," he agreed and he let her put the earring on him, before he did the same for her.

That night, he took her back to the same muggle motel as before. This time there was no laughter, no burst of giggles when he _Imperio'd_ the same poor desk clerk. Olive just stood there and watched, silent as ever in Scabior's baggy sleeping clothes.

When he returned from the pub, Olive ate the beef and barley stew so fast that he felt sick, wondering if it hadn't been longer than a week since she'd eaten. After that, she slipped into a food coma and he took that time to patch the rest of her up. After digging through the vials in his first aid kit, tossing aside the poisons and Veritaserum, he found a few salves that had her face to normal proportion in no time. Olive stirred each time he dropped Dittany into a new cut, but never fully woke. The broken nose was fixed quickly, though he had to reset it twice before it looked comparable to how it had before. The worst damage he found was a broken wrist, the same hand that the glass had gone through. It took him awhile to mend it because he'd gotten distracted at first, tracing the scar on her palm with his finger.

Scabior fell asleep knelt next to the bed, his forehead resting against her arm. When he woke, the sun blaring through the window, he lifted his face to see Olive just staring at him. She said nothing, though, and for that he was thankful.

Things were better that day. The fever had gone down and she didn't eat as fast each time he returned with food. They held a few mumbled conversations, Scabior telling Olive that Potter had escaped Malfoy Manor and Olive explaining what the telly was and how it worked. Scabior was so enthralled with the little black box that when he tore his eyes away, the outside world had grown dark and Olive was sleeping soundly. Ignoring the free bed, he kicked off his boots, turned off the picture box, and crawled under the covers with her. Olive was facing away from him and stirred when his arms wrapped around her, but she made no protest. Some sort of knot released in his stomach - relief - and he drew her close to his chest. The honeysuckle attacked him as he leaned into her hair, clenching eyes and fists when his forehead rested on her crown. One of the worst thoughts he'd had over the last two months was that he wouldn't be able to do this, to hold her or even touch her, ever again. And when they woke the next morning, he was still holding her tight.

"I can smell it," she said, a tremor in her voice. Scabior drew himself back, pulling his disheveled hair away from her face where it had fallen. He could tell from the clarity of her voice that she'd been awake for a while. He could also tell, to his relief, that her fever had finally broken.

"Smell what?" he said, voice groggy compared to hers. Scabior was rubbing a fist into his eyes, trying to shake the sleep, when Olive rolled toward him and grabbed the ends of his hair. She buried her face in it, drawing a deep breath.

"The forest in your hair," she said, pulling herself away. Olive leaned up, burying her face in his neck. Scabior could feel her nose drift from his ear down his jaw, the slightest trace of her lips on his throat. The honeysuckle was everywhere and he was nearly overwhelmed when a huff of her hot breath spread over his neck. Scabior slid a hand to her throat, gentle but firm, and forced her away before he lost himself and hurt her. All he could focus on were her lips and how they'd been at his throat just moments ago. The heat of her breath was still lingering beneath his chin.

"He made me like you," she said, even though they both already knew. It was just the first time either had said it aloud. "It stormed while I was gone. I can smell it on your skin."

"Very good," he muttered, thumb brushing back and forth over her bottom lip. "It rained the day before you came back to me." But his mind was elsewhere, eyes glued on her lips. Fuck Lysia, this was all her fault. Olive wouldn't have been taken if it wasn't for that bitch. Why should he stop himself from kissing Olive just because of _her?_ Thoughts were racing through his head, growing darker by the second. Scabior didn't want to just own Olive's cunt, he wanted to own _all_ of her, every last inch. Now they were a better match, now they were equals. He had to keep himself ahead, he had to _own_ her before she got the idea that she could leave him again. Olive would _never_ leave him again. Scabior wouldn't look away from her lips, paranoia flooding through him at the thought of her leaving, at being alone. The Vow was forgotten to him - all he could think of was her not being with him at any given moment and how awful that would feel.

Olive saw it coming, felt him pull her throat closer to him, to his face. "Don't you dare," she said, turning her head to the side with a pained expression.

"Olive, look at me," he said. When she didn't, the slightest squeeze wrapped around her throat. She kept her head turned to the side, though complied and looked at him from the corner of her eyes. There was a different fear there, one he'd never seen before, but it was a fear of him nonetheless. It made the dark feelings, the paranoia, calm down within him. If she was scared, then he could control her. With a slight jerk, he turned her face back toward him and studied the strange expression on her face. "You're afraid," he decided. "You're afraid you'll like it."

"I'll never forgive myself," she said, self-loathing ringing in each word. Scabior released her throat and slid his hand up her loose shirt, resting his palm in the space between her breasts.

"Who owns you?" he said, feeling a tremor run down her.

"I _hate_ you," she spat, another twitch taking over her face.

"Who owns you?" he said, pressing his hand into her chest, into her heart.

Olive gave him a miserable look, knowing there was no hiding their sick attraction toward one another any longer. She'd barely gotten the words, "You do," out before his lips captured hers. It was like unwrapping a candy bar one piece at a time - this was a new piece of Olive he hadn't claimed yet. Now that the stupid little Malfoy twat was out of her mind, he was staking his claim. If he had to claim every cell in her body to make her his, he would do it. If only to make her stay.

Scabior lingered, relishing in the soft gasp she'd given and the way her bottom lip trembled when he held it between his own. It seemed an eternity as he pulled away.

"No apologies," he said, finally looking up into her green eyes.

"I hate you," she repeated, leaning up to capture his lips once more.


	17. Chapter 17

_EDITED: 08/17/2015_

When Olive pulled away, a look of pain on her face, Scabior wasn't having it.

"Stop," she urged, turning her head away from him. Fingers, rough and calloused, brushed along her jaw, forcing her face back toward him and Scabior took her lips with his again.

"Scabior, _stop,_ " she said, pulling away once more. The heat of his lips was unbearable, the way his tongue had slid along hers raising new levels of guilt in her chest. When he pulled her face toward him again, more forced this time, she spat out, "I didn't mean it. _Stop."_

Scabior was too far gone to stop, pushing her head to the side and burying his face in the crook of her neck. "You're not allowed to take it back," he muttered, drawing in a deep breath, the honeysuckle floating within him. "I won't let you."

Then Olive really panicked, the weight of her actions suffocating her as much as the way his lips danced across her throat.

"I don't want to do this," she protested, fear laced in every word, regret in every syllable. "Scabior, stop, I mean it, _stop._ I can't."

But, he wouldn't stop, refused to. Scabior was going to _make_ her belong to him. The way Olive's lips had chased his, the fervor in which she kissed him, it all only made his need to own her grow.

"Get _off_ me!" she screamed, panic fueling her hands between them, pushing at his chest, his face, anything to get him away from her. Scabior's hand was at her throat in an instant, a grunt slipping from him as he held her down, Olive protesting every move.

 _"Get the fuck off me!"_ she struggled to say, trying to pry his hand from her neck. Tears were burning her eyes, more in anger with herself than him. Olive couldn't hit him, couldn't assault him in any form without breaking her Vow, but she still struggled to get out of his grasp.

 _"No,"_ he growled in her ear, fist tightening around her throat. " _You_ did this. It's your fault," he said, lowering his body on her to better anchor her wriggling. Olive could feel his erection rubbing against her and she shrieked at what she'd done, fighting against him with all her might. The dead weight on top of her proved too much, her movements useless. She hated how her face screwed up, the feelings of uncertainty and self-hatred winning over, angry tears spilling down her face.

"Say you did it," he said, restricting her throat further. When she tried to push him away, he pinned one of her wrists down with his elbow, his free hand snatching her other arm and pressing it into the mattress. "Admit it's your fault, Olive."

Dread flooded her stomach, knowing he was right, his sick logic making a sob choke up her throat. This was her fault. If she hadn't chased his lips, hadn't let him split her mouth wide with the warmth of his tongue, then this wouldn't be happening.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, voice blocked by the pressure on her throat.

"No fuckin' apologies, Olive," he muttered into her ear, lips flitting over her lobe with each word. "Just admit it, admit what you did."

"It's my fault," she agreed, thinking maybe if she let him win this one that he would sober and stop. "It's my fault, Scabior, please, just stop, I'm sorry."

His fist clenched around her throat, shutting off the little air that had been flowing through.

"I said _no apologies,_ " he growled, voice angrier, louder. The honeysuckle was overwhelming, taking him over when he dug his face into the warm space beneath her ear. Olive was fighting against his grasp, but her wrists never left the sheets. Scabior was lost, her scent taking his thoughts to her mouth, to the way she gasped when he first kissed her, to the way her lips had trembled. The fear in her voice, in her eyes, carried him deeper into his loss of judgment, the real Olive forgotten. The tremors in her body weren't felt by him, nor the way her hands gradually tried less and less to pry his fist away. Scabior wasn't aware of how red her face was growing, how bloodshot her eyes. He missed the way her fingers slid down his wrist, then off onto the sheets, forgotten by their owner. All he knew was the honeysuckle.

It wasn't until he went to whisper threats in her ear that he came to his senses and snapped his eyes to her face. Olive had gone limp, eyes closed, tear tracks running down her cheeks, which were purple even beyond the bruises. When he realized there was no pulse under his fingers, he released her, fear flooding his stomach.

Olive gasped for air, opening her unfocused eyes, heart pounding so hard and fast that he could feel it through her whole body.

"Don't apologize," he muttered, watching as she tried to blink away her confusion. Scabior was trying to shake the dark feeling from his chest, the terrible ache when he thought he'd killed her. Instead, he focused on Olive, her sleepy demeanor reminding him of the morning he woke her with his touch. Not wanting her to see the pained expression on his face, the small display of weakness, he continued his assault before she snapped from her senses. Scabior's hands slid under Olive's loose shirt, tugging it up to her chin, a fleeting memory passing him of how easily she'd given in when she'd been waking. The scent of him on her skin attacked his senses when he bent to take her nipple in his mouth, the smell stronger than ever now that she'd been wearing his clothes. Scabior had always been possessive of her, but now that traces of him clung to her skin, it grew tenfold. Olive would never wear her own clothes again - no, she would always wear his from this day on. Everyone would know who she belonged to.

Olive was sucking in deep breaths, the ringing in her ears growing, the spinning in her sight still keeping her deep in disorientation. It took a few moments to remember where she was, to see the telly in the corner, the generic motel curtains pulled shut. Scabior was on top of her still and the realization made a jerk run through her body.

"Should 'ave just killed me," she said, grimacing at the way her voice broke, making her sound like him.

"I didn't want to kill you," he answered, lips moving against her nipple, his hot breath perking it up. Disgust rolled in her stomach, but though her hands were now free, she made no move against him.

"You're disgusting," she spat, unclear to both whether she meant Scabior or herself.

His head shot up in an instant, hand finding her mouth, clamping down over it.

"Stop talking," he ordered, giving her a dark look before returning his lips to her nipple. When he took it between his teeth, a muffled sound of protest vibrated against the palm of his hand. "This wouldn't be so hard if you didn't fuckin' hate yourself so much," he growled. Scabior continued his assault on her breasts, moving from left to right, back and forth, relishing in the growing heat between their bodies.

Olive kept telling herself it was the pregnancy that made it feel good, her nipples more sensitive now. She wasn't even sure if that was a real thing, but she urged herself to believe it, to quell the sick feeling of betrayal rolling through her. But no matter how hard her mind fought her body, that warm feeling kept growing inside her, creeping down to the space between her thighs. In a second wind attempt to break free, fueled by the panic of her body betraying her, she let out a muffled scream into his hand and turned her head wild from side to side, pressing her legs together to try and smother the heat. Scabior kept up with her every move without even taking his hand from her mouth. When she started shaking her head in violent motions, trying to get free of his hand, he bit down on her nipple so hard that she gave a muffled scream, but he released her from his teeth and tore his mouth away to look up at her. The look on her face gave him a satisfied, triumphant feeling. Olive's eyes were wide, frightened - pain and confusion were looking back at him. He almost had her - she was right there, _so close_ to the edge of giving in. All he had to do was give a little push.

"Why do you keep blamin' me?" he said, realizing he'd sobered and so letting his free hand take over where his mouth left off, tugging and tweaking her nipple. "I didn't kill 'im. I done a lot of things, but I didn't kill 'im, Olive."

Even though he was looking at her, he was so lost in the helplessness in her eyes that he forgot his hand was still clamped over her mouth. It wasn't until she moved her lips to speak that he realized and drew back enough to allow her speech, his palm finding her cheek, fingers brushing against her lips.

"You gave the _order,"_ she said, a terrible feeling clenching her stomach when a shudder ran down her. Olive knew it wasn't her normal shudder of stress. It was the way his fingers were twisting her sensitive flesh that made the horrible feeling spread down her spine. "Stop, Scabior," she pleaded, again pressing her thighs together to make the feeling stop, but it only made it worse.

"I didn't tell them to kill 'im," he said, fingers pinching so rough that she let out a quick whine. Beyond the bruises, her cheeks grew red, embarrassed and angry with herself for the noise she'd made.

"You told them to _take care of it,"_ she protested, sucking in a quick breath when his lips found her throat. "Scabior, _stop,_ I mean it, stop."

 _"Why?"_ he said into the crook of her neck, careful of the honeysuckle this time. "Because you like it?"

"Scabior, stop," she repeated, unwilling to answer the question. Her voice was rough and quiet, a pained expression growing across her face.

"Say I didn't kill 'im," he demanded. "Say you like it, Olive."

"It _is_ your fault," she whispered. "You told them to do it." Again, she refused to acknowledge his second statement, instead trying to stick to her guns. Olive held still now, though emotions were crashing over her features. She watched Scabior as he watched her.

"I told them to _take care of it!"_ he screamed, Olive flinching away when he struck the headboard in his anger, knowing it could have easily been aimed at her face. "They could have _Obliviated_ 'im, they could have tied 'im up and made 'im watch while they carried you away, they could have knocked 'im out, but _they_ killed him, Olive. _They_ did it, not me."

Her eyes were glistening, a slight tremble running across her lips.

"You did other things," she said, voice quiet, fear in her eyes from his sudden outburst and the truth of his words. Scabior bent his head to the crook of her neck again, hiding his smirk there. She was as good as his.

"Like what? What have I done?" he asked, not hiding the grin in his voice. Goose bumps grew over her arms in a mixture of his breath on her throat and his playful tone.

"You _raped_ me," she said, a new edge of anger in her voice.

"An' why did I do it?" he asked, lips moving against the soft skin of her throat.

"Because you're _sick,"_ she spat, disgust welling up on her face, though she made no move to escape his mouth.

"I think _you're_ sick for liking this, sweet'art," he said, grinning into her neck. "Why did I really do it?" Scabior gave her the chance to reply by pressing his lips into the hollow of her throat. He felt her swallow against his mouth, widening his smirk. She was afraid. And fear meant control. Olive never dared answer and so he added, "I was punishin' you, wasn't I?"

Still she said nothing and so he lost himself in the scent of her skin for a moment. "What else did I do?" he finally asked, pulling away from her throat and rising up to look her eye to eye, their noses almost touching. Scabior relished how her eyes flooded with relief as he released her nipple. And again how quick her face went tense when his fingers slid under the waist of her baggy bottoms.

"You hit me," she whispered, confusion in her eyes, his words making more sense than they should.

 _"Why?"_ he said, fingers sliding along the warmth they found, satisfaction welling up inside his chest knowing some part of her liked this.

"Because you were punishing me," she whispered, soft as air. Olive's voice sounded hollow, her eyes far away.

"Right," he breathed, leaning down, their noses running along each other as his lips traced along hers. "Because you didn't listen, sweet'art. Am I hurtin' you now?"

The hotness of his breath on her mouth made the goose bumps rise again down her arms.

"No," she said, voice as quiet as before, though it gave a slight hitch when he rubbed his fingers into her below.

"Don't you realize I don't have to be cruel to you?"

The closeness of their faces was no matter - neither would look away or so much as blink.

"Stop twisting everything," she said, though he heard it in her voice, a slight trace of resignation in her words. Scabior _had her._ He _knew_ he had her now. There was a defeated look behind her eyes that only made his feeling of victory grow.

"Just _stop,_ Olive. Stop hatin' yourself so much, stop hatin' me for things I never did. Things I _had_ to do to keep you in line."

Much to his dismay, she clenched her thighs together tighter, leaving his hand trapped in the warmth but unable to probe further.

" _Don't_ take my hate from me," she said, tremors in her voice and face. The fear in her tone, the edge of begging, it was all making his excitement grow, the evidence pressing harder into her thigh. "I don't know who I'll be without it."

"I don't want to take your hatred away, sweet'art," he said, concern etched on his face when his free hand moved to cup her cheek. "Just aim it where it belongs. Hate the Ministry for doin' this to mudbloods, Olive. Hate Greyback for makin' you like me, hate your dad for not making you run."

"He _tried,"_ she interrupted. "Don't talk about him like that, he was a good man."

Scabior closed the distance between them and placed the gentlest kiss on her mouth, even gentler than Draco had kissed her.

"I'm sure he was," he said, voice as gentle as his lips. "I know without a doubt you were too stubborn to run, but he should'a been sterner with you, love."

Things were jumbled in her head, everything altering, adjusting to this new perspective forced on her. Olive was so lost to his manipulations, his sick logic that had distorted her view for the past few months, that she was blind to how he was twisting her now, cementing her further under his thumb. Fear was rooted in her chest, rewriting every memory, every feeling, and casting herself in a darker light, placing the blame on herself. Olive didn't realize what a dangerous trap she was leading herself into.

"And you're too stern," she said, brow tucked in defiance. Scabior laughed against her mouth, a genuine laugh, the first she'd ever heard leave him. It was rich and remarkably lacking in cruelty. Something about it made her heart beat funny, two quick thumps so hard it took her breath away.

"I try an' be stern with you, but you never listen," he said, pausing to lay another small kiss on her mouth, lingering longer this time. But when he pulled away, there was darkness over his face, a look of greed. "You'll never leave again, do you understand? You're going to stay _right here_ with _me._ An' I don't care if you hate it, I don't care if you hate me, but we both know this will be a lot easier on you if you'd just realize I'm only the bad guy when you _make_ me be the bad guy. I could have killed you at any point and I never did, Olive."

Olive was processing what he'd said, things clicking into place where they shouldn't, but she was blind to that, too. She was thinking of how right he was, how she'd been making him do these things to her. When he first invaded her home, he wouldn't have beaten her if she hadn't struggled and fought. When he raped her that first time, it was what she deserved for hiding as Xavier and plotting to kill him. And when he _Imperio'd_ her, it was just a precaution - she'd already stolen his wand and escaped him twice.

Scabior _didn't_ kill her father. The Booke brothers did. And even then, it was her father's fault. Why didn't he _make_ her run? He was her parent, in charge of her safety, and he let them sit there all summer like waiting ducks.

 _'She's mine,'_ Scabior thought, watching the changing emotions on her face, the far off look in her eye, the way her brow tucked and face jerked every few seconds. He had to kiss her again to hide his triumphant smirk.

"Do you understand what I've been tryin' to beat into you the past few months?"

Scabior pulled back, knowing he had her in the palm of his hand like never before. When she nodded, eyes meeting his, he studied her for a moment, relishing in his victory.

"Good," he said, darkness permeating his face and words. "Now spread your legs."

Olive didn't disappoint. She never looked away, that resigned look clear in her eyes, and with a defeated shudder spread her thighs apart.

The next morning when Scabior woke, the smell of sex perfumed the air and he recalled the night before with a smirk. It was short lived, though. He felt the small shakes under his arm where Olive laid. Then he heard the shuddering breaths, smelled the salt. The small noises tugged something in his chest he'd never felt before. Sure, he loved it when she cried - when he _made_ her cry - but this was different. It made a bad feeling take over him. Sweet and gentle was not Scabior's favorite approach, but somehow it didn't seem like it would be that bad to treat Olive well for the day. That way, when he got awful again, she would hold onto that sweetness, remember that day when he wasn't so bad. Scabior thought of Lysia, thought of how many times he'd lost his temper on her and how every single time she came crawling back, fueled by her good memories of him, clinging to them, hoping for more. He would do the same to Olive, he would make sure she would never leave again. And if she did, she would always come back, as Lysia had. This was not a game Scabior was unfamiliar with.

"Olive, sweet'art, roll over here. What's wrong?"

She only gave a minuscule shake to her head, tilting her face down into the pillow. Scabior's nostrils flared, irritated that she didn't listen to him.

"C'mere, love," he tried, "Let me see you before I get cross with you."

Olive froze, but it did the trick. She rolled over, their naked flesh rubbing against each other in every movement, to face him. The sight made the corners of his mouth tug down. Her eyes were swollen, skin red and blotchy. Olive wouldn't even look at him, instead keeping her sight lowered to his chest.

"Just tell me what's wrong," he said, running the hand on her waist up her back to the base of her neck.

"I -," Olive started, then shook her head, new tears falling.

"Go on," he urged, bending down to lay his lips on her forehead. It wasn't as hard to be gentle with Olive as the others. Scabior assured himself it was some hidden guilt. He'd been far harder on her than he ever had anyone else. The others, they would have folded long ago. Olive was stronger than them, more resilient. For that he would offer kindness, if only for the day.

"I'm," she said, voice wavering. "I'm just so confused. I-," she paused, taking two quick breaths, "I need to go home."

Fuck being kind. Scabior turned to stone around her, his entire body growing tense.

"You can't go home," he said and she could tell he was fighting to keep his voice even. "I told you last night you weren't ever leaving again."

"Scabior, I-," she said, pausing again and looking up at him with such an expression of self-loathing that it nearly took his breath away. "You've got to let me cope with this."

"I don't _have_ to let you do anything," he corrected, edge of danger in his voice.

"Go with me," she said, so soft that normal hearing wouldn't have picked it up. "I know this is just a game to you," she added, face withdrawn. "You win, alright? Just let me say goodbye and I'll do what you say."

It was so quiet that they heard a door slam down the hall, chatty voices heading down for free breakfast in the lobby. Scabior was dissecting every inch of her face, then, with a tucked brow, gave an irritated huff.

"Let's get dressed," he said.

Olive had taken her time in each room, Scabior watching as she stared at pictures and touched a gentle hand to this or that. Neither of them were good at magically mending clothes and so the garments of his that she wore - the deep green shirt, the striped trousers - were still ill-fitting despite their attempts to make them her size. His secondary boots, a little older than the pair he wore now, fit well at least. They'd tried hardest to make those the correct size, both knowing a good pair of boots was the most important thing a Snatcher owned. Scabior liked seeing her wander through her old home in his clothes - it sealed the feeling of ownership, of how he'd taken her from that life and changed her, put his stamp on her. He was glad she didn't ask to grab more of her things because he didn't want to look bad when he told her no.

"I was being serious," she said, in the kitchen now. A little cardboard box sat in her hand. "I meant it when I said to burn it down."

Scabior thought of the night she'd returned, how she'd laughed in the tub and told him to burn the house down. He hadn't been sure what she meant. Olive pulled a little wooden stick from the box and gave a sharp swipe across the wall, igniting the end. She held it out toward him, eyes void of all emotion. It made him think of those days after he'd tortured her, those days when she was broken.

"Together?" she asked, which only made him further wonder if she wasn't still broken inside. But he understood what she was doing now.

"You want to forget," he said, not a question, but a knowing statement. He knew she was destroying everything so she could forget, so she wouldn't be chased by so much guilt. "You're makin' it easier on yourself."

"Because you told me to," she said and in that moment he would have fucked her right there on the kitchen sink if she hadn't of been holding a match in her hand. Instead, he crossed the distance and wrapped his hand around hers, tipping a sharp nod of his head. _Together._ The two turned and stuck out their joined hands to the curtain, watching it catch the flame.

For a few minutes, they just stood and watched the fire grow, Scabior's hand resting on the back of her neck. The curtains were all roaring fire now, the flames eating into the walls, curling away the wallpaper.

"Let's go," he said, the heat in the room unbearable for much longer. When he looked to Olive, her eyes were glued to the flames, a sad look tucking down her brow, but she heard him and nodded. When they landed back in the motel room, the heat still lingered on their skin.

Scabior wasted no time, having been itching to get her back since she declared she did it because he told her to. He pushed her back into the wall, his hands resting on either side of her head, blocking her in. Olive looked up at him, eyes boring into his, the slightest tremble crossing her mouth. Fucking hell, he loved the way her lips trembled.

"I'm all yours," she said in defeat and that was all it took to send him over the edge. His mouth captured hers in an instant, his hands crawling up her shirt.

"Say it again," he demanded after pulling his lips away, moving to suck the soft flesh at the curve of her neck.

 _"I'm yours,"_ she repeated, not caring anymore how that small part of her enjoyed saying it. Her hands snaked up through his hair, finding the back of his neck. It was the first time she'd touched him like that outside the kiss and it made him give a triumphant growl into her jaw, leaning up to take her lips once more.

"Again, say it again," he went on, "Who do you belong to?" Scabior pulled her away from the wall in his haste and excitement, backing her into the bed and crawling over her.

"You," she said as he unbuttoned her trousers and began tugging them down. "Only you."

Scabior was unbuttoning his trousers and pulled himself free. Without warning, he spread her thighs apart and pushed himself into her. Olive's body wasn't ready yet and the intrusion was painful, a small cry escaping her throat.

"You'll get used to it," he muttered into her ear as he pulled back and thrust into her again, Olive giving another muffled grunt of pain. She wasn't sure if he meant her body would get used to him being inside her or if she would get used to this new life with him.

 _"It's for the baby,'_ she thought, trying to convince herself that this was all to keep him happy so he wouldn't beat her and kill it without knowing she was pregnant, but Olive sensed her own deception. This was for her. This was her giving in, no matter how she tried to lie to herself.

The more he entered and pulled out, entered and pulled out, the less it pinched and stung. By the time he pulled her shirt up and took her nipple in his mouth, as he had the night before, that warm feeling was building inside and her hands found his hair again, holding him to her breast to urge him on.

"See how much better it is when you do as I say," he muttered into her skin, fighting against her hands to raise his head and look at her. Olive's eyes were glossed over, her lips parted and swollen from the earlier assault of his mouth. Scabior tore his eyes from her face and again busied himself with sucking the same spot on her neck, marking her as his. He reached around his neck and stole one of her hands, leading it to her breast, urging her to continue what he'd started. Olive didn't fight him once, not one display of resistance, and he thrust into her harder as her fingers began to knead her nipple in his place.

Some of Scabior's hair had fallen into her face and her other hand pulled away from him to brush it away, but Scabior left her neck to look up and catch her wrist in his grip. He pinned her arm to the sheets and busied himself with her mouth, biting her lower lip and grinning into the kiss when her tongue flitted out to meet his. With each thrust, she would gasp against his lips, Scabior's hand becoming more and more lax around her wrist, eventually sliding up and meeting her palm to palm, their fingers lacing.

There was a pressure building inside Olive, a heat she hadn't yet known. It flooded every inch of her, every cell in her body, blood coursing and pinkening her skin. Each time he slid further inside her, the pressure built, a wave growing and threatening to crash over her. Over and over she thought it couldn't possibly get more intense and with each thrust he stretched her around him and proved her wrong. All lingering guilt was gone, all hatred lost when she dug her feet into the sheets and began raising her hips to meet his. They were in time, in rhythm, each crashing into each other and pulling away while Olive whined into his mouth.

"It's better when you fuck me back," he muttered against her lips, breaking away only long enough to say that before returning to her tongue. Then he thrust into her and hit just the right place, all reason leaving Olive when she cried into his kiss. Scabior was growing near his finish and that nearly pushed him over the edge. He began pounding himself into her, determined to hear the cry again. After months of fighting, months of forcing her, Olive was writhing beneath him, crying out, _fucking him._ Months and months of hard work had paid off, the puppet strings he'd once dreamed of were now secure in place, tying and knotting her under his control. She would stay with him now, no tricks, no running off - she would stay, he could tell it in the way her fingers clenched at his, how her tongue danced in his mouth, how her fingers pulled her nipple taut like he'd told her. But the most telling thing was the way her hips rose to meet his, her eagerness giving him the most triumphant feeling of all.

Scabior wanted more control now and so he stole her free hand away from her breast, pinning it on the other side of her head like the other - palms together, fingers laced. Each of Olive's breaths were now a whine, one continuous noise that Scabior loved and swore to hear over and over again. _"Fuck,"_ she gasped, the feeling in her body growing to such a height that she thought she'd pass out. Olive fought against his grip, though it was less trying to get loose and more trying to exert some of the energy brimming inside her. His hands held tight, though, and her arms never even left the sheets an inch.

"That's a good girl, Olive," he said when she whined again. Olive had stopped meeting his hips, her legs trembling too bad to support her weight any longer. Scabior never slowed, though - he just kept thrusting into her, growing out of breath, lips pressing on any stretch of her skin he could find. A new wave shot through Olive, a wave that carried her to the top, nearing the crash of the wave. Her back arched when she moaned, her bare breasts rising to meet his chest as she let out a great shudder

"We could've been doin' this all along if you'd of let me," he said into her neck, though he knew had she not fought him in the beginning, he'd of killed her like the others. That's what drew him in to Olive, that she fought back so fiercely, but he wouldn't trade her fucking for her violence if his life depended on it. "You're close," he noted with a grunt, feeling the small clenches around him each time he entered her. When he pulled away from her neck, he saw her face was pained, though he knew it was more pleasure than anything.

"Y-es," she choked out, clenching her eyes shut at the heat bubbling inside, ready to spill over. Scabior began pounding into her even harder, enjoying the look on her face, the way her brow tucked and lips trembled with each small whine. But now he was fucking her so hard that she yelped each time he crashed into her. Olive was on fire, every inch of her burning, nails digging into the back of his hands. In perfect time, they both sucked in a deep breath, the lightbulb on the bedside table shattering. Scabior laughed into her neck, another genuine chuckle that somehow became the best noise she'd ever heard. Olive began to laugh, too, but the wave inside her mounted with his next thrust and the laugh quickly turned to a long cry as he spilled inside of her. Everything was crashing in her body, the wave coursing through her and, for a brief moment, the room spun before her eyes.

They laid intertwined with one another for a few minutes longer, Scabior still on top of her, still inside her. Every now and then he would pull back and press himself back in, enjoying the small contractions of her around him.

"We need to get some sleep," he mumbled into her hair, voice tired. Olive hardly stirred, even when he pulled himself out of her. She seemed in a daze, half-asleep already. Scabior made his way to her mouth one last time, pressing the smallest kiss on the corners of her mouth. "Tomorrow's a full moon," he said and she gave a slow nod, leaving him to wonder if she even heard what he'd said. Too exhausted to carry on a conversation, they both drifted into sleep, naked and still on top of the blankets.

Scabior didn't realize until the next day how deep his manipulations of Olive ran. What he witnessed was not simply excess anger and irritation from Greyback's scratch. Each time he'd struck her, raped her, been cruel to her over the past few months, it had all resulted in unintentional conditioning. It wasn't that there were several Olives, but only one that changed and hid, morphed like her face, her brutality growing with the bruises and scars that marred her. Scabior could see that now, could see that she'd been hiding the real Olive inside all along, the dark Olive that was like _him._ And as in awe of her that he was after that next night, no matter how much his attraction grew after her sick display of cruelty to those poor men, there was a small part of him that feared her after the things she did. And Scabior never feared anyone - it was new, it was _exhilarating._

But, that was later in the night. Their next morning began with the usual full moon headaches and grumbled conversations. It was later, after they'd returned to the forest and set up camp, that they perked up, hearing the group of men in the distance.

That was when the real Olive came out to play.


	18. Chapter 18

_EDITED: 02/22/2015_

Olive understood now why Scabior was so cruel during the full moon. Her head was throbbing, feeling as if it were going to explode. Heat was running through her - not near as bad as the fever, but enough to make her irritated. All she could do was clench and unclench her fists while they set up the tent, trying her best to force away the urge of violence shaking through her.

In the distance a twig snapped, both of their heads shooting up at the noise. Olive closed her eyes to better hear, the range of her ability reaching far more than natural. Scabior didn't have to close his eyes anymore to concentrate and knew eventually she wouldn't have to either. For now, he let her, watching the concentration on her face and the light sheen of sweat on her brow.

"How many?" he asked, knowing there were seven men. Olive's brow tucked while she counted the footsteps, trying to separate them from the hushed voices.

"Six or seven," she muttered, blinking open her eyes, brow still tucked. Scabior nodded, surprised and impressed.

"Seven," he confirmed, then dumped his bag on the bed and riffled through his things, plucking up her red armband and Snatcher ID.

"I thought you burned them," she said, taking them from his outstretched hand.

"No," he said, eyes flitting down to her picture moving on the card. "I kept those. Just so we wouldn't have to go through all those lines again if you came back."

That wasn't true, though. Scabior held on to those things, as he had the earrings they now wore, because he wanted to keep some small piece of her with him. If she'd been dead, then at least he had her picture to look at.

"Oh," was all she said, then let him tie the red band around her upper left arm. When she did the same to him, it seemed more intimate than before.

"Don't do anything stupid," he chided, hands brushing the hair away from either side of her face. Then one hand snaked behind her neck, the other dropping to press into the middle of her chest. "You can feel it in there. You want to _hurt_ somebody. You're going to want to hit them, kick them, anything. _Don't._ Don't get caught up and break your Vow. Let me make sure none of 'em are pureblood and then you can do what you want. We won't take 'em to the Ministry, they'll just be practice in case you kill 'em."

Part of him was surprised when she nodded, no look of disgust or declaration that she wasn't sick like him. Scabior always forgot that she'd already killed the Booke twins, already mauled Walrich half to death. And that was before Greyback infected her. Excitement danced inside him, curious to see how she reacted now.

"Let's go," she said, a new darkness in her voice that made him even more anxious to see the damage she was capable of.

Olive was glad when they split paths, having decided on a V-formation to attack from the sides. Things were too intense with Scabior and she was still adjusting. Parts of her still wanted to hate him while most of her hated herself for not being able to.

She could hear him now - his soft footsteps barely kicking up the brush from a good fifty yards away. It was no wonder he always caught her when she ran with hearing like that. There wasn't a doubt in her mind that he was listening to her right now, too. Scabior didn't trust her, as he shouldn't. That much was clear when the darkness quivered in his eyes as she'd suggested they split up. There was something wrong with him, some plan he was hiding. That morning and the night before, he'd been far too easy on her. For whatever reason, he was restraining himself and that made her uneasy, both wondering what he was up to and not liking how she enjoyed the sweet attention. But, it was because all of this game he was playing that he had no choice but to agree with her plan. A V-formation was the most logical with only two of them and he was trying to win her over, no doubt refusing to play the bad guy and tell her no.

The separation gave Olive room to breathe and, once out of his sight, she let a protective hand fall over her stomach. She'd had many plans in regards to Scabior, but none whatsoever about the baby. Olive hadn't the slightest idea what to do about that and so she just kept her stomach hidden, some part of her wishing the problem would just disappear.

Scabior's hushed whisper carried through the breeze. "They've stopped," he said and she honed her hearing, realizing he was right. The men were unpacking their things out of sight, somewhere between her and Scabior.

Olive could feel his muted steps carrying him closer to the group of men. It was growing difficult to concentrate - her skin was becoming more flushed, her head pounding against her skull. The worst was the feeling that gnawed at her chest, a primal urge to _hurt_ something. Her hands had begun to shake as the excess energy built inside her, needing out, needing any release. The need grew with each step closer she took, her feet far less practiced than Scabior's, but quiet enough that they didn't hear. And then she saw them and ducked behind a tree. Across the clearing, she could see Scabior's hair, one eye poking out from behind a thick tree trunk. There were three older men between them, hair balding and greying. The other four looked of age with her - teenagers through mid-twenties, though she recognized none. The seven shared the same ski-slope nose, fathers and sons of the same family probably, and all but one of the younger boys had dark hair. The other had dark blonde. Olive could smell them, the sun on their skin, the sweat on their brows. But, two of them were different, her eyes and nose working together to sort them out. It was the older one with spectacles and the blonde boy, they had to be father and son. Beyond the sweat and the sun, there was something else, something undefinable - a heavy musk that made her heart beat faster in excitement.

Scabior could smell the difference, too, and though he wasn't attracted to the scent, he could see from across the clearing that Olive was, her pupils wide and black while she stared at the blonde one with greed.

"Just stay calm," he urged, trying to quell the dark feeling of jealousy clenching his insides. Under normal circumstances, he wouldn't tolerate this behavior, but it was her first full moon. Despite his own emotions being out of whack, he'd sworn to himself that whatever happened, happened. The scratch _wasn't_ her fault, it was Lysia's, and for that he would be more lenient with her until she learned to control herself.

"Wait until they've got their backs turned," she whispered, the soft noise carrying over the group's ears and into Scabior's.

What the _fuck_ was she doing?

Now he could see that Olive had pulled her red band away and tucked it somewhere out of sight. A growl of frustration snaked up his throat while he watched her hijack their plan and stumble out into the clearing. A terrible feeling shuddered through him when each man turned and pulled a wand on her, Olive raising two empty hands in surrender.

Why was she being so _stupid?_

"I need help," she said to the group, five giving her distrustful looks, the other two looking a bit frightened. The blonde boy was one of the distrustful ones, bordering on angry, and was the first to speak.

"What do you want?" he spat and Scabior was glad for his mean tone. Maybe that would smack some sense into Olive. But she took another step, faking a believable limp. Scabior was still tense, but a small part of him relaxed, realizing she had it under control. One of the older men turned toward him, scanning the horizon for more trouble, eyes missing Scabior's face peeking out from behind the tree. All he had to do was turn around and they could begin the attack.

"Snatchers," she choked out, Scabior never realizing what an actress she could be. "They captured my friends and me. They killed them, my friends. But there was a werewolf with them, he told me he liked the way I _smelled."_

Olive's eyes were flitting from man to man, not close enough for them to see the growing blackness in her eyes. Her brain urged the older man in the front to turn around so Scabior could attack, unsure of how much longer she could control herself around the blonde boy and his father.

The blonde boy was closer to her and his scent was overwhelming, making it hard to concentrate, her thoughts slipping to him thrusting into her, of strangling him, beating his head off the ground until he stopped moving.

"He…he made me do things," she said, stepping around a large rock to get nearer the group. Olive made her face grow red and ducked her head as if in shame, but really it was just to better see the rock – big enough to need two hands for lifting, but small enough to use as a weapon. "He snapped my wand and left me here for dead. I just – I haven't eaten in so long."

"Bullshit," said the blonde boy, the only one whose face hadn't softened with her half-true tale. "A werewolf would have killed you then and there."

"If you don't believe me, then look," she said, trying to calm the anger boiling through her. This boy would watch on while all his family died, if only for being a thorn in her side. With shaking fingers, she lifted the bottom of her shirt, just enough to expose Greyback's scratch.

"Oliver," said one of the younger boys, Olive's stomach clenching for a moment, thinking they were saying _her_ name. "She's harmless. Let's just take her with us to Fairpike's tomorrow."

Oliver, the blonde boy, never got a chance to reply. The older man in the back had turned to see Olive's scar and now cried out, bound in heavy chains. Oliver was next to be snagged, then another of the younger boys. Olive reached into her boot to free her wand, but was tackled to the ground, a thick forearm laying against her throat. All of the other men were out of sight, yelling curses as Scabior made his appearance, but Olive was swarmed with the sight of Oliver's father on top of her, his scent faded compared to his son, but enough to push her into madness. Her façade snapped in two and she lost herself to the dark part inside her.

Scabior turned toward the last one right as the brat apparated away to safety. Six out of seven would have to do. He assumed Olive took care of the older man with glasses, but when he heard a sick _thunk_ and a masculine cry of pain, his blood ran cold, eyes shooting toward her.

" _Stop!"_ he screamed, right as the blonde boy yelled out for his dad, eyes wide in horror.

Olive was too gone to hear either of them. She was straddling the older man, the rock between her raised hands. All Scabior could do was watch her slam it into the man's head with another deep _thunk_ and hope to hell he wasn't a pureblood. The other two men and the two younger boys watched, mouths hanging open in shock and horror. The blonde boy, Oliver, struggled against his chains, face red, thick tears rolling down his cheeks while he screamed out for Olive to stop.

Another sick _thunk._ Then another. And with each motion, his moans shrank and the blood grew.

"Stop," Scabior ordered again, not daring go pull her away. If he tried, she may hit him and he _was_ a pureblood.

In the end, it was far worse than Walrich. There was nothing left of the man's face, only a red, sticky crater.

"Sweet'art, he's dead," Scabior tried again, but she just kept pummeling into his head with the rock. All of the men, Scabior and Oliver included, grew silent and watched as her hits slowed, the rock finally tumbling from her grip and landing with a _thud_ on the grass.

Scabior was sure she would realize what she'd done and reduce herself to hysterics, but she stood as if this were an everyday occurrence and looked at him so fiercely that he took a step back from her.

"Did you get their wands?" she asked, black pupils covering most the green of her eyes.

"Yeah," he said, for a brief moment wondering if he looked this scary during the full moon.

"Good," she said, looking down over the five men they had left. "Without wands, they're as useless as muggles. And muggles should die muggle deaths."

Scabior wasn't sure what to think when she waved her wand in four short jerks, each motion producing a long rope. All the men were silent when she set to work, tying knots and leaving a loop at the end of each length. Olive looked up and gave their hostages a dark look.

"You should probably be saying goodbye to one another," she said, then went back to tying her knots, not missing the look of pure hatred Oliver gave her.

When she was done with the ropes, she walked around, examining the branches of each tree.

"Where were you headed?" she heard Scabior ask, turning to see he had his dagger pressed against one of the older men's throat.

"We're not tellin' you nothin'!" Oliver spat, face red and swollen from the tears, obviously the most outspoken of the group. Scabior held the knife a little tighter to the man's throat.

"You said somethin' about Fairpike's, I suggest you tell me."

"I'd rather die," the older man declared, keeping his proud face despite the threat at his neck.

"Give it to me," Olive ordered, dragging the ropes with her across the clearing, hand outstretched toward Scabior. His eyes darkened, not enjoying how _she'd_ been the one to order _him,_ but he allowed it and handed over the dagger. Olive gave him the ropes in return. "Find a low branch and throw them over," she said, turning her attention to the men. Scabior did as she said, picking up where she left off and examining each limb of every tree, though he kept casting glances her way. The men were obviously related, though, so he need not worry - if the first wasn't pureblood, the rest probably weren't either.

"Now," she said, crazed smile taking over her face, "I'm going to give you each a chance to answer. And if I don't have the answer I want by the time you've each spoken, I'm going to turn our friend here –," she paused motioning to the same older man that Scabior had just threatened, "- into a pin cushion."

The drying blood on her hands made it hard for them to disbelieve her.

"You," she said, pointing toward the other older man with the dagger. "What is Fairpike's?" The two older men shared a look, the one in danger giving a slight shake to his head. The other man, his brother she assumed, remained silent.

"Alright," she said, moving along to one of the younger brown haired boys. "What is Fairpike's?"

Still only silence. Scabior was watching again, seeing the blackness of her eyes, the smirk across her mouth. When she _tsk_ ed, it sent shivers down his arm, goose bumps flooding his skin.

Olive made a loud buzzer noise, over-exaggerated frown crossing her mouth. "Time's up. Not looking good for you, my friend," she said, looking back to the older man in danger.

"And what about you?" she said, kicking her leg up and taking a large step in front of the other brown haired boy. It reminded Scabior of a child skipping and somehow the lightheartedness of her action made this whole thing even darker. "What is Fairpike's?"

That was something she'd picked up from him – asking the whole question to each person you were interrogating, over and over. It was a psychological trick – the repetition made them more nervous.

When the third didn't answer, either, she walked back to the threatened older man and pointed her dagger to Oliver.

"Last chance," she sang, giggle sneaking up her throat. "What is Fairpike's?"

 _"Fuck off,"_ the boy spat, his brown eyes not daring break contact from the blackness of hers.

 _"Not_ the answer I was looking for," she said and then, with no warning, drove the dagger into the top of the man's thigh. All of them, even Scabior, sucked in a breath, the older man screaming out, fighting at the chains around him. _"Oops,"_ she tittered, "I think I may have nicked the bone."

Olive drew the dagger back with such a force that it ripped more skin, the metallic smell of blood flooding the clearing.

"Round two," she announced. "Another leg. Then the arms, then the neck. Three more rounds until it _really_ gets fun." Then, as an afterthought, she asked, "Whose dad is this?"

The first brown haired boy began to speak, but the bleeding man barked out for him to be quiet. Olive had already seen, though. The damage was done. She walked over to the boy and knelt before him, red hand still clutching the dagger.

"Is that your dad?" she asked, tone growing softer. The boy was afraid to look away from her black eyes and only gave a nervous nod.

"Charlie, shut the _fuck_ up," she heard Oliver say behind them.

"Your name's Charlie?" she asked, realizing now that he looked younger than her, maybe 14 or 15. Again he nodded, eyes trained on hers.

"Charlie, let me tell you something," she said, speaking low as if she were letting him in on a secret. The other men couldn't hear, except Scabior. The branches, the ropes, they were forgotten. He saw only her wicked eyes, the way the breeze blew her hair out and around her face. Somehow even that made her more monstrous, as if she were controlling the lengths of her hair to dance. "I saw my Dad killed in front of me," she continued, brow tucking while she looked down on the boy with faux sympathy. "It made me a _really_ bad person. Now, you don't want that, do you, Charlie? You don't want to see your dad die, you don't want to be like me, do you?"

The boy was rendered speechless, finally breaking away from her eyes, allowing his own to dart to his dad and then back to her. He gave a quick shake to his head.

"That's a good boy," she cooed. "See, I have no family left, I couldn't save mine. I became a bad guy. But, a boy who spares his father from unnecessary pain is a hero, isn't he, Charlie?"

"Don't listen to her," Oliver called out, but the boy nodded, tension still clear on his face.

"So, tell me, Charlie - what is Fairpike's?"

The boy looked to the side, the warmth of his brown eyes darkening in shame. "It's an inn. It's in South London."

Olive was nodding, perched in front of him, trying to hide her grin. "And what _is_ Fairpike's, Charlie?"

"It's an inn," he repeated, hands twitching when she _tsk_ ed.

"Don't play games, Charlie, because I play them better. What's so special about the inn? Why were you heading there?"

Scabior was in pure awe of her, not able to tear his eyes away. The two long splinch scars, the yellowing remnants of Greyback's bruises, the blackness of her eyes - it was terrifying. He couldn't think of a single time she'd looked more beautiful.

 _"What_ is Fairpike's?" she said, voice staying low, but growing cruel.

"A safe house," he muttered, finally tearing his eyes away to look down to his lap.

"Very good, Charlie. Now you don't have to watch your dad die." For a long moment, the boy looked relieved. "You'll get to die with him."

By the time he registered what she said and started struggling against his chains, Olive had already stood and turned to leave. She crossed the small clearing toward Scabior, eyebrows raised in disapproval.

"I thought I told you to hang the ropes," she snapped, redness growing over her cheeks. Despite how frightening she was, Scabior was on edge, too, with the full moon and that was enough to tip the scale. In one swift motion, he flung the ropes to the ground and got a hold on her - one arm wrapped around her shoulders, the other clamping around her jaw.

"Fuckin' talk like that to me again, sweet'art, I _dare_ you," he said, Olive watching his pupils expand, her own terrifying expression reflected in the blackness.

"Fuck off," she spat, tearing herself away as he shoved her. "Fuck you," she said, "I can't wait for you to be dead."

"You'll die before I will," he assured her through clenched teeth. Olive still had the dagger in her hand, but he had no worry - it was enchanted, it wouldn't let anyone harm the owner. But, she never made a move against him, instead ducking with a growl and picking up the ropes where he'd dropped them. When she bent, he could see the five men staring at them, the two younger boys sobbing. Then she stood and they were out of sight again.

Olive went back to work, absolutely seething. She tossed the four ropes over the first low branch she found and turned back to Scabior.

"Will you _please -,"_ she started, dry sarcasm lacing each word, "- bring me the two younger brats and their fathers. Put them each under a rope. The blonde one gets to live, that's his reward for being the smart one. But his punishment for being a little prick is getting to watch."

"You do it," Scabior spat out, Olive giving him a fake pout.

"But I'm not as strong as you," she said in a sickly sweet voice. Scabior had just about enough. When they were done, he would show her _exactly_ how much stronger he was than her. That thought quelled his temper and he did as she said, dragging the two youngest first, then the two oldest. Olive just stood and watched him with a smug expression that he couldn't wait to beat off her face later. Slightly out of breath, he heaved Oliver in front of the men so he could watch.

Olive took her time, sliding a noose around each of their necks and securing the slipknot against their skin. So lost in the insanity pooling through her that she didn't realize she was humming funeral dirges until she stopped. A sad, mocking pout crossed her face as she walked to stand between the men and Scabior, facing the blonde boy with her hands tucked behind her back.

"Would you like to say a few words?" she asked Oliver and a cold chill ran down Scabior's spine.

"Why don't you fight us man to man?" he spat, angry tears welling up behind his lashes. "I hope you both rot in _hell."_

Olive's grin grew so wide and fierce that she was hard to look at. "I'm sure we will," she said, "Though, let me assure you, we'll be the life of the party."

Then she turned and raised her wand, apparently done with the boy. "Any last words?" she asked, her true cruelty leaking into each syllable. The two older men kept their heads held high in pride, the younger two sobbing even harder. None of them had anything to say.

"Then I am sad to declare that on this day -," she paused, looking over her shoulder toward Scabior. "What is today?" When he gave her a moody shrug, she spun back toward the men. "On this day that we don't know the date, I sentence you to death on charges of being idiots in the wrong place at the wrong time."

And then with a wide whip of her wand, she pulled the ropes toward her, the men rising by their necks until their feet left the ground. The ropes wound around the branch, leaving them hanging without magical help. It took a few minutes and quite a bit of twitching and kicking from the men, but finally all four hung limp and purple-faced, the breeze picking up and swaying them like some morbid swing set.

"What do we do with him?" Scabior said in a grunt. Olive turned her attention to the two men.

"Leave him a wand," she said, nodding toward Scabior's pocket, which was stuffed with the five foreign wands. "Actually, no," she corrected. "Let him find his dad's. He can get a good look at what I did. We'll loosen him up. He'll have to look for the wand, it'll give us time to go."

"Go where?"

Olive looked at him like he was stupid.

 _"Somewhere else,"_ she said in a slow tone, as if he weren't capable of understanding regular speech. "We're not going to sit here all fucking day."

Scabior's eyes flashed, pupils quivering and widening. "I've had about enough of your mouth," he said, danger clear in his tone.

"And I've had about enough of _you,"_ she shot back. "So loosen his fucking chains and let's get the fuck out of here before you make me break my Vow."

Scabior moved in such a rush that it seemed to be one fluid movement. He took two long strides toward her, jaw set when he grabbed her around the arm, and with a single flourish of his wand both loosened the chains and apparated away.

As soon as they landed, he shoved her against the table and the back of his hand struck across her face so hard that she lost her balance. With a furious growl, Olive shot up toward him, but he was quick to grab her wrists and pin them against her chest, pushing her down on the surface of the table.

"Fucking let go of me!" she screamed, a strange feeling spreading through her. This was something new, something primal - something _wolf._ To be on your back beneath another was a sign of submission. Scabior felt it, too, and pressed her farther into the wood, asserting his dominance, no control over the blackness in his eyes now. Olive fought his grip, kicking and screaming out, but his hands held firm and something deep inside was changing, giving in to him. Scabior was establishing himself as the alpha and everything in her was changing, warping, at her being on her back beneath him, telling her to follow her leader.

Scabior watched the darkness of her eyes clench and expand with her heartbeat, but each time they widened, it was a little less. A completely foreign feeling, to both Olive and the wolf inside, was welling in her chest for him. _Respect._

"Get off me," she said again, but the damage had been done and when Scabior let go of her wrists, she made no move to harm him. Or any move otherwise. In one motion, he grabbed her knees and stood, pulling her toward the edge of the table, her legs hanging over. Though her pupils were still wide, much of the green around them was visible now. It was hard to tell on Scabior as his eyes were quite dark to begin with, but Olive saw a trace of warm brown on the edges.

Scabior pulled his wand from his back pocket and held it above her. Both parts of Olive - the wolf and the human - agreed. She'd been outspoken, she deserved what he gave her.

With the flick of his wrist, her limbs sank heavy into the wood, her ankles pulling toward the floor, causing a deep ache in her lower back. A weight was over her and she couldn't move a muscle except to blink her eyes.

"You're going to stay like this for the next two days," he said, looking down on her frozen form. "And maybe next time you'll remember how to speak to me."

After that, he pulled away and refused to acknowledge her. It wasn't just how she'd spoken to him, belittled him in front of other men. Olive was a danger to herself. To others. To _him._ And if he had to lock her up every full moon to keep them both alive, he would do it.

By the next morning, her back was throbbing from her legs pulling down over the edge of the table. No matter how hard she tried to call out, to tell him he was right, to beg him to release her, no noise would leave her mouth. It felt suffocating, though she could breathe just fine. And no matter how hard she willed herself to budge, to break free, Olive couldn't get angry with him. That respect had settled deep in her bones. She'd overstepped her boundaries and he had to punish her for it.

Scabior finally left the bedroom in the early afternoon and by then her head was pounding, pulse rising, the same urge of violence crashing through her as the day before, only worse. It was the middle moon. But, there was nothing to be done. She watched him stalk outside, right by her, without a glance her way. Then there was a _crack_ and he was gone.

Olive urged herself to sleep to get rid of the violent feeling running inside her, but between her aching back and growling stomach, it was impossible. She held to the hope that he would return that night with beef and barley stew, but he didn't return at all. Or the next day, when the heat in her body was fleeing, her headache fading. Some sick part of her wished Greyback would show up and claw her to pieces so Scabior could see how helpless he'd left her.

The day after that, Olive was taken by such an exhaustion that she fought to keep her eyes open. When a fierce storm started howling so hard she thought the tent would rip away from around her, it was easier to stay awake. Frightened, hurting, tired, and hungry, she felt hot tears build in her lashes and snake down her immobile face. The pain had spread from her lower back through her whole body and now her frustration was winning over, more tears following at a growing rate. But, the unnatural drowsiness surrounded her and she couldn't bring herself to try and break free of the weight laying over her.

In the deafening storm, even with her improved hearing, she hadn't heard the _crack_ outside over the howling wind. When the tent flap pulled back, afternoon light flooded the kitchen, as well as a few raindrops that the wind carried to her face.

Scabior was drenched, his hair clinging to his face and neck. But he looked at her - finally acknowledged her. Hope swelled in her chest when he stumbled over, bloodshot eyes scanning her face, inspecting the tear tracks down her cheeks.

"Did you learn your lesson?" he asked, voice more groggy than usual, as if he'd been asleep. If Olive could have moved, she would have yawned - the exhaustion blanketing her was indescribable. The wolf part of her had faded, and with that her respect for him, but something warm spread through her chest when he wiped her tears away with his thumb.

Despite their shared look of exhaustion, there was danger present in his eyes. The warm feeling stopped dead in its tracks when his fingers dug into her chin. "I'm takin' your silence as a no," he said, new level of wickedness rising in his tone, them both knowing she couldn't speak or even make the slightest noise. He left her side and went to stand between her knees, fingers undoing the buttons on her trousers in one quick motion. With a sharp tug, he had them down around her ankles. As terrible as the situation was, she was glad when he lifted her legs and ducked under the new barrier her trousers created. Having her legs up relieved the pain in her back and a shaking huff left her when he balanced her calves on his shoulders. Relief flooded her to have some amount of change to her frozen position, no matter the cost.

"If you don't give me control, I'll take it from you," he declared, unbuttoning his own trousers and pulling himself free. Scabior rubbed his cock into her, already hard at the sight of her laying where he'd put her, his control over Olive becoming more and more fetishized with each passing day. Thunder _boomed_ so unexpectedly that his body gave a jerk. Olive didn't move, couldn't, and that thought was almost enough to push him over the edge. She'd laid still, no jumps at the thunder, none of her little twitches, since he'd left because _he_ did this to her. _He_ controlled her. He could leave her like this forever if he wanted.

"I want this to hurt you," he said in a dark tone, forcing himself inside against the dry friction between her thighs. The way she closed her eyes was an affirmation of the pain. "So you know not to talk to me like that ever again."

Scabior stood to his full height, stretching her legs up so far that she began to lift off the table. He drew back and thrust into her again, tears welling up behind her eyes, though her face laid expressionless. "The next time you fuck up, Olive, I might just leave you like this for a year. Is that what you want? _Is it?"_

His hand left one of her knees and he leaned over to pull her shirt up, exposing her to the chilled air.

"I'll do whatever I want to you," he said, starting to pound into her now, satisfied that she was growing wet to accommodate him. That's how it should be. She would grow to _always_ accommodate him, no matter what he wanted from her. "Because I _own_ you, Olive," he continued, "I tell you what to do and you do it. This is what happens when you try an' take control of me. You make me have to put you in your place."

Then Olive opened her eyes and looked at him in understanding. She _knew._ She _agreed._ Scabior lost all semblance of reason and started fucking her so hard the table was moving inch by inch, her body rocking with each thrust, breasts bouncing in violent jerks.

It didn't take her very long. Olive closed her eyes and he watched the flush creep over her chest and face. It was the most satisfying thing making her finish before him, the tight contractions around his dick carrying him to his own end.

When he was finished with her, he released the spell and made her eat something. It was also satisfying to see how she limped, her body aching from the position she'd laid in for days. Scabior wouldn't offer to help pull up her trousers when she stood on shaking legs and so she'd just kicked them off and held on to whatever was in reach while she made her way back to the bedroom.

But, the _most_ satisfying of all was how she knew to go to his bed. By the time her head hit the pillow, she was nearly asleep from the strange exhaustion hanging over her.

"You can barely keep your eyes open the first day after a full moon," he said, laying on his edge of the bed and kicking off his boots. Olive only muttered into her pillow, the first noise she'd made since his return. He realized, with great amusement, that though she'd kicked off her trousers, she still wore his boots.

"Olive," he said with that laugh of his, feeling much better after getting out his frustration with her. The laugh was enough to make her stir and look over at him, her heart beating in that strange way. "You've left your boots on."

"Too tired," she mumbled, eyes going unfocused and closing. With a grinning yawn, he leaned down and struggled to free her feet, the boots making two loud _thuds_ when they hit the floor, though they were nothing compared to the thunder outside.

"Roll over here," he said once he'd gotten comfortable and Olive did as he told her. He snaked an arm under her neck, the other resting down on her waist. "You won't do it again, will you?" he said, no cruelty in his voice, no chiding.

"No," she said, opening her sleepy eyes to look at him. "You're in charge."

"Good," he answered, his lips finding her eyebrow. "What do you want to do tomorrow?" he said against her skin, his own voice was growing tired now.

"Whatever you want," she yawned, digging her face into his arm. Scabior pulled back and looked down at her.

"You're still allowed to have an opinion," he told her. Then she looked up at him with both uncertainty and hope behind her eyes. She seemed more awake than she had been for the past few minutes.

"Can we go to the pub and have that stew?" she asked, the look on her face making his throat constrict.

"I think we can do that, love," he said, smile tugging the corners of his mouth when his lips found her eyebrow again.

They spent the rest of the day in bed, Olive sleeping sound while Scabior woke every hour or so from the nightmares. But each time he woke, they were more and more tangled with each other and every time it made it easier for him to slip back into sleep.


	19. Chapter 19

_EDITED: 02/22/2015_

The next month was the best Olive and Scabior had ever shared. Not once did they fight and not once did he have to threaten her. In the morning, they would stake out at the little inn across from Fairpike's, in the afternoons they would hunt mudbloods, and in the evenings they would fuck, usually more than once.

Olive had grown compliant, doing exactly what he said when he said it. If he told her to spread her legs, she did. If he told her to look at him while his cock was in her mouth, she did. And the one time he'd told her to lay there and touch herself while he watched, she did, despite the embarrassment burning on her cheeks.

And though he dominated her in all other aspects of life, on the field they were equals. Together they were unstoppable, bringing in so many mudbloods, halfies, and blood traitors that the Ministry raised them to the highest premium of pay. Undesirables with rewards stayed the same, but any no-names they brought in, they got paid double for. Their vault at Gringotts was beginning to overflow.

The way they worked together, dueling mudbloods, was something of legend. Once, when outnumbered five to one, they had dueled with such flawless perfection that it was as if they had practiced each and every step. The two had spun, backs toward each other, the matching hoops in their ears gleaming, with such precision that they stepped in time with each other as they warded off the circle of attackers around them. It was a good paycheck that day - ten mudbloods at 200 apiece.

And sometimes, like Oliver, they let one go, if only because they knew survivors would talk. Talking was what made them notorious. Talking was what got them recognized toward the end of the month. A school-aged boy had seen them snaking through the woods and ran, sobbing the whole way back to his family, screaming, _"It's them, it's them!"_

But that glorious month came to an end with the next full moon. They'd figured Fairpike's out. For days upon days they poured over Fairpike's with their eyes, looking for any indication of a safe house. And then they saw the obvious. Each of the buildings on the street were the same - three floors and an attic. Except for Fairpike's.

Fairpike's had no attic.

Olive and Scabior compared the architecture of the buildings, all identical, all probably built at the same time by the same people. And with that logic in place, they knew the attic of Fairpike's had to be the hidden safe house.

The mudbloods were easy to spot. They showed up, dirty and grimy, and went inside. And the next morning, or any after, when the other guests were checking out and leaving, the mudbloods never left. They were still inside somewhere. In the attic.

The trick was getting inside the attic. Someone would have to tell them the location before an entrance would even reveal itself. And that's what had them stumped for most of the month. But, Olive had a plan and no matter how much Scabior hated it, this seemed to be their only option.

"I don't like it," Scabior said in a dark tone, giving her a moody look. Their plan was in place now and they'd gotten a room at the inn across the street, making sure to have a view of Fairpike's. "You can't be alone on a full moon, Olive, look at what you did last time."

It was true. That violent feeling was already swimming through her.

"And what's it matter? They're nobody mudbloods, if I lose my cool, no one will miss them."

 _"You'll be outnumbered,"_ his voice rang out, sharp and tense. Olive grew quiet for a moment.

"How about this - if I start to feel like I'm going to lose control, I'll tell them I'm doing a patrol to look for trouble and I'll come right back to you."

Scabior only grumbled from the chair of the inn room, crossing his arms with a scowl. The full mood madness hadn't completely taken over either of them yet and Olive couldn't help the laugh that snaked up her throat despite her throbbing head.

"You're such a baby," she teased, wide smile taking over her face. Scabior's eyes darkened and he stood in one fluid motion, towering over Olive, each inch of his rising height intimidating her.

 _"Am I?"_ he asked, stepping toward her. Olive didn't dare back away or tear her eyes from his.

"Yes," she challenged, keeping her chin high, smile growing.

She knew it wasn't anger behind his eyes, but lust.

A half hour later, while Olive re-buttoned her trousers, Scabior laid on his back with eyes clenched, the stress and headache getting the best of him now that his distraction was finished.

"What do you think of this?" she asked, turning toward him. When he opened his eyes, a knot lodged in his chest. Olive had disguised herself, eyes the same green, but her hair was shorter and wavy, a deep brown color.

"No," he said, looking away from her. "Not brunette. I hate brunettes." Lysia had brown hair - she even wore it similar to Olive's disguise. Scabior didn't want Olive to be anything like Lysia.

"It's just a disguise," she laughed, unaware of how serious he was being.

 _"Change it,"_ he demanded, refusing to look at her. Olive's smile faded and she did as she was told, the lengths of her hair flooding with ginger coloring.

"Better?" she asked, the grin in her voice gone. Scabior looked her over and gave a curt nod.

"C'mere," he said, reaching an open hand toward her. Olive crossed to the bedside and knelt, his open hand reaching to take her chin in gentle fingers. "Let me see your face."

The hair hadn't been the only thing she'd changed. Now her eyes were a bit smaller, lips fuller, nose longer. But again, she did as she was told and changed her face back to normal.

"You could make me look like anything and you insist on _this,"_ she said, slight trace of amusement in her voice. Though Greyback's bruises had long faded, there was still the first splinch wound that crawled from her neck up across her cheek. Olive didn't really take care of herself anymore, as there was no time or reason. The lengths of her hair were riddled with split-ends and she knew there had to be imperfections in her complexion from lack of care.

Scabior gave her an indignant look. "Why would I want you to look like anything else?"

The list of things Scabior did that made her heart feel strange was growing by the day and now she had something new to add.

"C'mere," he said again, drawing her chin near to take her lips with his for a moment. "You'd tell me if something went wrong, right?"

Olive's throat constricted, face faltering for a second. She bounced back to her grin in a heartbeat, but she could see in his eyes that the damage was done. Even if he'd meant if something went wrong with their plan, her mind moved to her hidden stomach, the cause of her slip up.

"Of course, I would," she said and, to brush her mishap under the rug, bent to capture his mouth once more. "Tomorrow, ten o'clock," she said, standing and hurrying out the door before he could interrogate the slip of her face.

Scabior watched her leave, then stood and crossed to the window with a scowl. There had been something in her eyes ever since she'd returned from Greyback - something she wasn't telling him. It had sat in his stomach all month, eating and gnawing at him from the inside out. Whatever it was, he would get to the bottom of it. If she had some fucking plan with Potter or Malfoy or even Greyback to escape again, he would nip it right in the bud. Olive was _his._ And Olive wouldn't leave him, even if he had to make her stay.

When Olive stepped out into the road below, he stared daggers into her stupid red hair. As if she'd felt it, Olive turned and looked at him over her shoulder, a hand resting on her stomach. It wasn't _his_ Olive, though - her face was back in disguise, just some decent looking girl about on her business.

She met his stare for a few moments longer, then remembered herself and dropped the hand from her stomach, turning and entering Fairpike's. But as soon as she opened the door, the familiar musk hit her. With a shuddering breath, she stepped inside, fighting to keep her pupils normal. Oliver was _there._

Everywhere in the air, he was there. Her heart was thumping in her throat, all reason shooting from her head, thinking only of fucking the boy and killing him. And though she should have turned right around and told Scabior, her feet carried her to the bar. Scabior sounded like a terrible idea after the heated look he'd just given her through the window. And the scent of Oliver was just so…ensnaring.

"Can I 'elp you?" an old woman asked from behind the bar, wiping her hands on an apron.

"Are you the owner?" Olive asked in a hushed tone. It didn't really matter if they were overheard, but it added to the charade of secrecy. The woman looked Olive over, seeing Scabior's ratty clothes, and glanced back with a nod. Good, she thought Olive was seeking help.

"When you get a chance," Olive said, eyeing the few other patrons in the bar, "Could we speak in private?"

The woman, as Olive predicted, seemed quite used to this and gave her a kind smile. "Of course, dear," she said, pointing toward a door behind the bar. "Go right through there and I'll be in just as soon as I pour these drinks."

Olive nodded and made her way around the bar into what looked like the woman's flat. Looking around at the quaint belongings, she pulled the two pieces of parchment from her pocket and took a seat on the threadbare couch to prepare. Oliver had been here, too, she could smell him on each thread of the fabric, making the pressure between her eyes build.

A few minutes later, the door opened again and the old woman stepped in and locked them inside.

"Now, what can I help you with?"

The woman was quite convinced Olive was there seeking safety, but you could never be too sure and so the charade continued.

"My name is Anna," Olive lied, "I'm mu- _ggleborn_." She'd nearly slipped and called herself a mudblood. "I'm told you have a safe house."

The woman inspected her for a moment, eyes narrowed as if looking for something on Olive's false face.

"These two," Olive continued, not letting herself get deterred, handing the parchment over to the woman. "Dreagan Scabior and Olive Westin. They tortured and killed my whole family in front of me and then they left me tied up to die."

The parchment crinkled when the woman stood in a flurry, eyes wide.

 _"It's them,"_ she said, not tearing her eyes from Olive and Scabior's Snatcher forms. It had taken another half day of waiting in lines at the Ministry, but they secured their forms on the grounds of doing a major mudblood bust. Minister Pius Thicknesse himself had brought them the copies of their papers and congratulated them on their hard work. Each form held all of their information and shared the same moving pictures as on their Snatcher IDs.

"After that," Olive said, "I got picked up by a group of Snatchers, except they weren't Snatchers at all, they were muggleborns who had stolen red armbands. They went around protecting people - they knew several safe houses and when they came across those in hiding, they would explain themselves and take the others to safety. No other Snatchers would bother them if they were already claimed. So I joined them."

"That's brilliant," the woman said, in awe of Olive's made up story. No mudblood was actually stupid enough to impersonate a Snatcher except _her._ "But, I don't understand…Are you bringing us new refugees?"

"No," Olive said with a slight shake of her head, "I'm here to move the refugees you've got. You're in danger."

The woman's brow tucked, but Olive didn't allow her a turn to speak.

"Dreagan and Olive have been at the inn across the street, watching this building for the past month. I don't know who, but somebody talked."

The woman was quiet for a moment, worry twisting her mouth. "They have to be moved," she said, frantic panic in her words. A deep satisfaction flooded Olive's chest.

"Not yet," she said, "They'll panic and draw attention. That's the last thing we need. Trust me, I've done this before. Let me talk to them, explain, and we'll do the move tomorrow morning. I already have a safe house set up. Olive's not with him today. I'm not sure where she went, but Dreagan won't do anything until she gets back."

Olive knew she had to refer to the two of them as either first or last name and, though Dreagan sounded funny in her mouth, the idea of calling herself Westin seemed even more strange.

"Let me tell Oliver at least. He'll want to fight if I don't warn him first." Olive's stomach clenched, as did her fists, but the woman only saw her curt nod. "Stay here, this may take a while," the woman continued, leaving back out the door and locking it once more behind her. Olive gasped in relief, letting her shaking hands find her temples while her pupils expanded.

It _did_ take a while. A very long while. But it took that long for Olive to calm down, for the headache to ease and the jitters to cease.

And no sooner had she gotten that small comfort than she caught the dark musk scent growing nearer and the rage began again. She'd hardly had time to right her pupils before a bookcase near the bed wiggled and shifted, revealing a passage behind. The smell hit her so hard that she nearly lost control of her disguise.

Olive clamped her teeth together when he stepped into the room, the same ski-slope nose, the same golden hair and scruff as before. _Oliver._

His face was red, but it seemed to be fading, and his fists were clenched despite the comforting hand the woman rubbed on his shoulder.

"Anna, this is Oliver."

Olive nodded toward him, fighting with everything to keep her pupils from spreading and giving her away. When Oliver nodded back and their eyes met, it was as if he knew who she was, like he was looking right through her. But then she watched how his own pupils quivered outward in a small display of attraction. Scabior's did that, too, when she looked at him.

 _'So, he likes me better with red hair,'_ she thought darkly, trying now to conceal her grin. _This_ could be fun.

"Let me see the papers," he said, stepping toward her with an outstretched hand. Olive handed him the papers, making sure their thumbs brushed for the slightest moment.

Oliver acted as if he hadn't noticed, but she didn't miss the way he pupils quivered again before he tore his eyes away to look at their Snatcher forms.

"That's them," he confirmed, darkness and anger invading his voice.

Olive wasn't even listening. She was lost in her thoughts, flooded with the sight of her forearm across his throat, of fucking and choking him, his face and lips turning purple, hot tears running down his cheeks.

_No._

A far more sinister plan invaded her thoughts, images of Oliver fucking the red-headed Anna shooting through her mind, of making him like it and then revealing her face only _after_ she tricked all the mudbloods to the Ministry.

 _Yes,_ that was it. Olive had decided and wouldn't budge.

Scabior was long forgotten across the street, where he sat at the window all night, watching for any signs that Olive was in danger.


	20. Chapter 20

_EDITED: 08/17/2015_

Olive's head was pounding even worse by the time she'd told the hidden group of witches and wizards the fake plan. Night had fallen by then as Hazel, the old woman, and Oliver had hashed out every detail, forcing the rage inside Olive to grow with every irritating word that passed their lips.

But, it was done. Olive had effectively dodged every small change they wanted to make and kept the original plan intact. The next day at ten o'clock, she was to apparate the thirty-some people to what they thought was a safe house, one by one. They were really going to be handed over to Scabior at the Ministry. Her reasoning for not telling the group the exact location of the new safe house was that someone had talked about this one and put them all in danger, therefore if they wanted to go to the new safe house, they couldn't know the location. They simply had to be taken there and that was all they could know about where they were at. There had been one older woman who stared at her with mistrustful eyes, but ended up saying nothing and fading into the mob mentality that this was the best course of action.

Olive had explained to them how her family was killed in front of her by the same two Snatchers that threatened them now. And she told them how, after that, she went on to pose as a Snatcher, which wasn't untrue. The part where she said she helped save mudbloods was the untrue part. Even in the very beginning, when she pretended to be Xavier Booke, Olive never lifted a finger to stop the rapes, the torture, or the murders. It would have given her away.

This Anna that she was pretending to be now – this Anna was a war hero. Olive was a spineless coward. But she knew without a doubt that if Anna really existed, she'd have been dead long ago. And Olive was alive. That had to count for something.

"Are you nervous?" he asked her later, when they were alone. Oliver had arrived at Fairpike's as soon as he untangled himself in the woods a month ago. Not to run and hide, but to warn them that they may be under attack soon. It told volumes about his character that he'd warned complete strangers about an impending threat before cutting down and properly burying his family the next day. Oliver was conditioned by war – the living came first, the dead second.

"A little," she lied, standing up from the chair in the corner of his room and stretching. Olive closed her eyes while she did so and urged her pupils back to normal size.

Oliver refused to stay with the others in hiding. There were three ways into his room – one through the hidden passage to Hazel's room, the normal door that could be used through the corridor connected to all other patron rooms, and another door that was visible only when you knew where it was – the door to the attic. Oliver acted like any patron, left the safety of his room, and even did nightly patrols down the street to watch for Olive and Scabior. He stayed in the room that connected Hazel's flat to the attic so he could guard the weak spot in their system. As he'd explained, Hazel couldn't include his room in the concealment spell because the other patrons would notice if a door in the hallway were missing when each of the doors were evenly spaced out on each floor. So, in order to protect the two skinny stairwells that were a lifeline for thirty-odd people, Oliver put his own life at risk.

"Here," he said, tossing a bottle of amber liquid on the bed. Despite the roaring headache, the pounding heartbeat, the way her fists clenched and unclenched to quell the violence inside, Olive felt satisfied. She knew Oliver thought he was being sly, offering her alcohol. "To calm your nerves," he added and she nearly rolled her eyes. Scabior and Greyback had her accustomed to a different sort of behavior. There was no wooing or veiled attempts at getting her drunk. Olive was used to men who took what they wanted. Such a devil-may-care approach made this seem almost childish in comparison.

"Thanks," she muttered, popping the top off and swigging straight from the bottle. Since that afternoon, they'd established some amount of rapport, already having _bonded_ over their families being brutally murdered by the same two Snatchers. Oliver had declared that after they moved the mudbloods, he would join her and help others in need. It was all rather dull to Olive, but she smiled and said he must be brave, remaining painfully patient with her eventual endgame in mind. She carefully capped the bottle and laid it back on the bed, some part of her wanting more for her headache and the other part fighting for the safety of her baby.

Oliver took his turn now, drawing a long drink from the bottle and then a second before handing it back to her. Olive lifted the bottle with pursed lips and pretended to take another long swig. The baby won in the end. Though, it wasn't just that she was pregnant – she had to keep her wits about her.

This went on for a few more minutes – Oliver taking a long drink while Olive pretended – and few words passed between them. A new flush had crept up his neck and, though the darkness inside was urging her to hurt him in any possible way, some strange and small part of her found it cute.

"D'you want to patrol with me?" he blurted, looking right at her, the expansion of his pupils giving him away again.

Olive feigned a small smile, wondering how it looked on this foreign face she was wearing. "Sure," she said in a low voice, more to ease the pain in her head than to sound timid, though it worked to her favor. Oliver grinned and tugged at her elbow, the musk attacking her in the movement and causing a great shudder to run through her.

"C'mon," he said with a sloppy grin, the alcohol having loosened him up. Olive wondered if this was the first time he'd relaxed since she'd murdered his family. To everyone else, he was stern and unyielding. Regardless, she made herself giggle, copying how the girls had always laughed around boys in school, even though she found the noise annoying and irritating. The redness crept further up his neck before he turned and looked at her. "You're cute," he added, Olive making her cheeks flood with color. She wondered if he would have found this girl cute under normal circumstances or if this was all just a distraction from the war.

"Thanks," she muttered, ducking her head with a feigned grin. Olive tucked a clenched fist into Scabior's spare jacket to hide her attempt to control herself. Oliver's scent was growing to be too much and she was fighting tooth and nail to contain herself.

"C'mon," he repeated with a grin, tugging her by the arm out into the corridor. The lights were dim now and everything was silent except for the slight ringing in her ears and the faint thrum of his heartbeat. When she brushed against him, she noticed the thrumming picked up, much to her satisfaction.

Olive was surprised when she glanced up to the large clock hanging in the corridor – it was already past two in the morning. It had just seemed a little while ago that she had dinner with Hazel and Oliver, but the time spent alone with him had flown by.

Oliver tugged her down two flights of stairs into the pub area, which was dark and quiet. Instead of going out the front, though, he led her through the kitchens and out a thin door which emptied into an alley.

Across the street from the front of the building, unseen to the pair, Scabior's jaw drew tense as his head shot up. Those scents were undeniable – it was Olive and that boy from before. His fingers clenched the sill as he leaned farther out the open window, honing his hearing. A few doors down, a woman was snoring. Below, two late night lovers were whispering to one another and, above, a man was muttering to himself, quill scratching against parchment. And with those distractions, he didn't hear what exactly _that boy_ muttered to his Olive, only that he had muttered something.

What followed made a terrible, sick knot rise in his gut. Olive's giggle danced through the still air, bouncing off brick and window, amplified by Scabior's irrational jealousy and fear of losing her. The sound was so lighthearted, so _girly_ that he couldn't conceive how she'd been the one to make it, though there was no mistaking it. The noise made him think of every idiotic girl he'd ever come across, how they giggled and batted their eyes. That was not _his_ Olive. That was someone else's Olive. Oliver's Olive. And that thought nearly drove him into madness.

Out in the darkness of the alley, Olive let her pupils relax. Oliver's scent was hanging between the looming buildings, filling her was the need to just _hurt_ him. The urge to choke him right that moment was pounding against her skull, but she pushed herself to stay calm and remain patient. The payoff would be better if she waited to hurt him.

"Oliver?" she asked, forcing an edge of innocence into her tone. "Are you sure you don't want to go with the others to the safe house?"

In the light of the full moon, the golden scruff on his chin seemed to glow.

"You tryin' to get rid of me already?" he asked in a joking tone, though his shoulders stiffened.

"No, not at all," Olive said slowly, measuring her next words to find those that would appeal to him most. "It's just that you'll be surrounded with others if you stay with them. This life is… _lonely."_

Oliver stopped a few steps shy from the mouth of the alley. She fought off the grin which threatened her face. "Do you all work alone?" he asked, turning toward her when he noticed she'd stopped. Olive kept herself well into the darkness, not yet ready to leave the shadow and hide her pupils again.

"No," she said, shaking her head. "Most work in groups or as pairs."

"Then why are you alone?"

"They can't take it," she lied, drawing a deep breath of his scent, though it seemed like a sigh. "They always leave me, one way or another."

It disgusted Olive to take such a damsel in distress route, but she'd seen it work time and time again at Hogwarts. And it wasn't as if she was actually a damsel in distress. If anything, she was the wolf in sheep's clothing.

"What do you mean?" he asked, stepping away from the mouth of the alley to be nearer her. Olive's heart hammered in her throat and for the first time since stepping into the pub, she doubted herself. Did she really want to be the wolf in sheep's clothing? How long had she been becoming the monster? Those two thoughts slid through her brain so fast that it took her breath away. What happened to her? What _was_ happening to her? No, there was no going back. That musky scent was attacking her and she'd be damned if she went to Scabior for help.

_Scabior._

That only led to more thoughts, which lead to more doubts. Where were these questions coming from all the sudden? Was this what Scabior felt whenever she was around him? Was this what her scent did to him? That…changed everything. The sudden uncertainty on her face must have showed because Oliver bent down close, brow scrunched in concern.

"You alright?" he asked, the hot huff of breath and liquor tickling her nose. It overpowered some small part of the musky scent and she let loose a long breath, trying to recompose herself.

"I'm fine," she lied. Despite the full moon blaring overhead, she pulled away from the madness and found some small fragment of her rational self.

Oliver was her.

And she was Scabior.

When did that happen? Why did she want to hurt him? Why was there a fading ache in her stomach for violence? Even before Greyback's scratch, back when she tortured poor Hermione. How long had she been like this, aching to hurt people? Was it Scabior? Or had she always been a monster?

"You look a bit pale," he added in concern, throwing an arm over her stiffened shoulders. But, they weren't stiff from Oliver's presence. They were stiff from Scabior's.

Olive heard the slight scrape of his boot and looked away, unsurprised when her wand flew from her hand, quickly followed by Oliver's.

"Get your _fuckin'_ hands off her," Scabior said from the mouth of the alley. Olive watched how his shadow stretched across the bricks in front of her, but she refused to look up. All she could think about was how her scent affected Scabior, how he dealt with it all the time, how the few times he'd managed to stop hurting her must have been an iron grip of self-control.

Oliver cursed under his breath and moved to stand in front of her. The whiff of his scent stirred the ache behind her eyes, but now that she only saw herself in Oliver, she lost the urge to harm him. But every coin had two sides and now she saw Scabior in _herself_ and with that came conflicting feelings of guilt and understanding. Olive didn't want to _understand_ why he hurt her. She wanted to hate him for it. Their shared history was rewriting itself, every time he'd managed to stop hurting her flipping through her mind, with amazing acts of self-control.

"Fuck off," Oliver spat, urging over his shoulder, "Run, Anna!"

Olive didn't move. Nor did she look away from Scabior's shadow. Everything seemed muddled in her brain, not sure where she stood, uncertain on whether she wanted to kill Oliver or help him. It wasn't as if she could run anyway, not from Scabior. This whole plan was going to shit because she got sidetracked, too focused on Oliver, and now it was a mess. Scabior was out from hiding and Oliver was probably going to get killed sooner rather than later. Where did that leave the refugees? Hazel? The Ministry was already closed for the night, but if they waited to move the mudbloods until morning, surely someone would find Oliver and then it would be _her_ they were after. Merlin's fucking beard, Scabior was going to beat her senseless for this. And she couldn't even blame him, she'd fucked everything up.

Oliver grunted and fell thrashing to the ground after a familiar metallic _clunk_ took him prisoner. When he landed, the chains scraped against the bricks making a terrible noise that sent a shiver up her spine.

"Stop being an idiot and run!" he screamed, but Olive held still and watched the shadow grow bigger and bigger until Scabior's boots and legs came into view.

"Shut up," he muttered and flicked his wand, stopping any further noise from Oliver. "Don't call her an idiot," Scabior spat, but lifted a gentle hand under her chin and tilted her face upward. "You idiot," he said to her now. "You've made a mess of things."

Olive's eyes stayed glued on his shirt, finding herself unable to look at him. Nothing made sense, one moment she'd been ready to kill Oliver and the next she was contemplating helping him. She felt _bad_ for her thoughts, but couldn't bring herself to aid him. Then those sneaking questions clawed at her again. Did Scabior ever feel bad for the things he'd done to her? If he hadn't, he'd of just killed her long ago, right? Was she overthinking this? Emotions were crashing all over her face and Scabior's brow furrowed, pulling her chin closer though she still wouldn't look at him.

"What's wrong, you look pale," he said, giving her chin a squeeze. "Show me your face."

It was a nice guy act laced with genuine concern, though it ended abruptly the next time she exhaled and he caught a whiff of Firewhisky on her breath. The anger that had forced him out of the inn and into the alley only grew when he wondered what Oliver had done to her, where he had touched her, and if she let him. With a growl of frustration, he pulled his hand away and backhanded her so hard she lost her footing. Olive tumbled down over Oliver and a sharp crack echoed down the alley as her head collided with a cement stair.

Scabior watched her hair flutter back to blonde, shaken from her disguise by the hit. Things went fuzzy in Olive's vision for a moment, but she stayed alert enough to stop her stomach from expanding. Oliver looked at her in shock, betrayal etched on every last inch of her face. All she could do was look away and try to blink the fuzziness out of her eyes, ignoring the tug of guilt in her chest. Then another question: did Scabior ever feel the guilt that she felt now?

"Get up," Scabior ordered. Olive wasn't listening. There was something warm running down her neck and when she went to wipe it away, she pulled back with red, sticky fingers. Things went fuzzy in her vision again.

"Get up," he ordered again, smelling the blood, but not realizing how quickly the gash was bleeding. Even with his eyes, the alley was dark enough to conceal the blood staining the back of his coat that she wore. But, using the wall to steady herself, she managed to get to her feet and stagger over toward him, one hand clamped over the gash in her head. Merlin's fucking beard, how it gnawed his insides that she wouldn't even look at him.

"While you were out here giggling and carrying on," he spat with a snarl, "I've been over there all night watching for any sign you might need help." Scabior grabbed the collar of the shirt and drew her close, causing her to sway on her tip-toes. _Still_ she wouldn't look at him and he began to shake her violently with grunts of frustration. "Why will you look at _him_ and not _me?"_ he yelled and in that moment they both huffed out a breath, unable to clean the air of what he'd just said. That was beyond his normal jealousy and selfishness. And as much as she loathed herself for it, something felt funny in her stomach at his words.

"Because I don't understand what this feeling is in my chest," she blurted, though there was a strain in each word to form correctly in her mouth. Scabior's face darkened and he tossed her to the ground.

"Kill him," he said, holding out her wand and refusing to look at her.

"That's not what I –"

" _Kill. Him."_

Scabior misunderstood. He thought she meant that she had a feeling in her chest for Oliver. But, the feeling in her chest was for _him._ And Olive's lack of movement only irked him further.

"I _won't_ 'ave you taken from me," he said in a fury, snatching her up from the ground and pressing her back into his chest. Scabior forced the wand into her hand and held her wrist out, pointing at Oliver. "Do it or I'll do it for you."

Panic was ringing alarms through every cell in her body. Olive tried to pull her wrist away, but was unable against his steel grip. Oliver was _her_ and _she_ was Scabior. And if she killed Oliver, it was as bad as Scabior killing her. Even looking down on Oliver, with his eyes filled with nothing but hatred for her, she fought against Scabior and turned her head away with a sob when it proved no use.

"Please don't make me kill him," she begged, eyes clenched tight, face away from both of them. It felt like her knees were going to buckle and everything was spinning behind her eyes.

" _Why?"_ Scabior demanded, forcing her head back toward the chained boy. He could smell the blood, but he was far too worked up to realize just how much it was.

"It's not how it sounds, you're twisting everything!" she pleaded, ignoring the pounding in her head. Scabior thought she fancied Oliver and now everything she said only made it worse. Olive couldn't think clearly enough to find the words that sounded right. Everything was too out of control and her vision was swimming. All she could do was beg for Oliver's life, which only added fuel to the fire.

Scabior wasn't having any of it.

"Look at him," he ordered, relishing in the slight shudder that ran down her as she caved to him and quit squirming. Scabior ran his hand down hers, correcting their aim. "That was an order," he added when she didn't turn her head. Unable to disobey him, she looked at Oliver and Scabior could smell the tears welling up in her eyes.

"Don't cry," he cooed into her ear and she felt that sadistic smile against her skin. "If you cry now, you won't 'ave any left for when we get home."

A huff of breath shook from her and his free hand raised to rest on her throat. "The longer you take," he continued to threaten, "The more _Crucios_ you're gettin' when we get back. Right now, you're at about five, but my patience is wearin' thin, Olive."

"You're such an idiot," she choked out, an edge of begging in her voice. "You don't understand anything."

"Kill him," Scabior urged, fist tightening around her throat. "Then we'll talk."

"You don't understand!" she begged. And he didn't. Scabior didn't understand that if she killed Oliver, it was essentially the same as Scabior killing her. If he made her kill Oliver, it changed everything. It made her weaker than him. It made him the all-powerful puppeteer of her life. And though this was already so, there was always hope. Even if the past month had gone well, it wouldn't last – they both knew that much. They were playing pretend, still loathing each other underneath it all. But, watching Oliver die would extinguish any flame of fight she had left in her. If he died at her hand, then surely she would die at Scabior's.

But, everything happened so quickly, there was no stopping it.

Scabior shoved her away with a fierce growl of irritation. Olive remembered scraping her hands when she fell, but after that she was taken by a familiar fog. So caught off guard, there was no fighting off the _Imperio –_ it closed in on her and then she was under his control, just like that. Somehow she'd gotten to her feet, then all she saw was the hatred in Oliver's eyes reflected in the green light leaving her wand.

Oliver's scent was already fading by the time Scabior released her from his control.

Olive looked at the boy for a moment, focused on the way his stubble gleamed in the moonlight, surrounding his face like a halo. Then her vision began to swim and her feet went out from under her. She swayed, two violent jerks running through her, and then everything went dark.


	21. Chapter 21

_EDITED: 05/04/2015_

Olive vaguely remembered the stinging on the back of her head. Scabior had made her drink some vile tasting mixture and she thought he'd said something about a concussion.

When she properly woke up, everything was spinning around her. In those few nauseous moments, she'd been unsure of where she was, though when her vision stabilized she realized she was back in the tent.

She'd killed Oliver.

That memory - the green light reflected in his angry eyes - tore through her so suddenly that she raised a heavy hand to her chest.

"Scabior," she called out, hoping to fix the damage she'd done. His name sounded warped in her ears and she swayed with the room. "It's not how it looked!"

There was no answer. Grunting at his stubbornness, she stood on weak legs, clutching on to everything she could. She'd woken on Scabior's bed and crossed to her own, but was met with something soft and fuzzy. Olive turned her head too fast and nearly lost her footing, but when she regained her composure, she saw her mattress and pillows had been sliced to pieces. Bits of cotton and feathers were strewn everywhere, reminding her of a time not so long ago when she returned home to find her bedroom in a similar state. Dread weighed down her stomach, knowing she was in trouble.

"It's not what you think," she called out again, but still there was no answer. Determined to set things straight, at least so he wouldn't hurt her _as_ much, she put one wobbly leg in front of the next. Every inch of her felt heavy and her sight went in and out of focus, though she still kept pushing herself forward. When she found the kitchen empty, she trekked further, bracing herself on the carved up table as she made her way outside. But at the tent flap she met a barrier. With an irritated sigh, she lifted a hand and felt the invisible glass which blocked her path and kept her prisoner. Too exhausted to move another inch, she slid down onto the floor to await his return.

The sun had been up for a few hours before she heard the crack outside that signaled his arrival. Olive could feel the dark aura rolling from him as he neared the tent flap and she recalled with dread that it was a middle moon. But she felt no anger, only anxiety, and wondered if her head injury or whatever he'd made her drink had her out of it enough to not be affected by the moon.

"What're you doin' out'a bed?"

It was the first thing from his mouth upon seeing her crumpled on the floor. The thinly veiled wrath in his tone was enough to keep her from looking up at him.

"You made me kill him," she said out of nowhere, her face welling up in pain. "You don't understand."

Silence rested between them for a few moments before Scabior knelt next to her.

"I just went an' single-handedly cleaned up your fuckin' mess an' busted that inn. Do you think I want to get home an' listen to you talk about wanting to fuck that _boy?"_

"I wanted to hurt him," she said miserably, covering her face with her hands to hide the tears welling in her eyes.

"But you still wanted to fuck 'im."

He knew that urge. He'd felt it himself many times and most often indulged in it. But, this was different. Olive was his. And no one else was going to touch her. She wasn't allowed.

Scabior waited for her to say something, but the silence she offered in return was all he needed. It was worse than hearing her confirm his suspicions. With one sudden movement, he snatched up the hair at the base of her neck and dragged her across the floor, trying to ignore both her wails of pain and the thick knot in his throat.

"You don't understand anything!" she screamed out, giving up any fight and letting him drag her across the floor into the bedroom. "You won't listen!"

Scabior threw her head toward the floor in the corner and silenced her with the wave of his wand, stopping her next words just as they were forming in her throat.

"Merlin, shut the _fuck up_ before someone mistakes you for a naggin' girlfriend."

There was just no talking to Scabior when he was like this. Not that Olive could speak at the moment, anyway, but she didn't even bother to give him a pleading look. It was the middle moon. And with that in mind, her face grew resigned.

"If you're gonna go out an' act like an animal with no fuckin' self-control, then you'll fuckin' stay down there on the floor like an animal."

When she refused to look up at him, Scabior grew even angrier.

"Merlin's fuckin' beard, Olive, it's like you _try_ to make me angry with you. An' fuckin' hell, all I can smell is that fuckin' _boy_ all over you."

Scabior was working himself up into a frenzy, grabbing Olive's face and forcing her to look up at him. When he saw her red-rimmed eyes he regretted it and pushed her face away, not wanting to see anymore. With one fluid motion, he pulled the dagger from his boot, fist clenched around the hilt. Olive watched the knife, but made no expression of fear, not even one of her little twitches. That bothered him. But what bothered him more was how she looked up at him for the first time on her own. There was no surprise in her expression. No betrayal, no pleading. And then she did the worst thing of all - she lifted her chin and exposed her neck. Olive gave him an expectant look, as if to say, "Well, get on with it."

That wasn't his intention at all. But it was that she _thought_ it was his intention that made his chest feel heavy. Scabior hadn't felt guilt often in his life, but the few times he had, it had been over something he'd done to Olive.

She said he didn't understand. _She_ didn't understand. _She_ was the idiot. Just because he hurt her didn't mean he wanted to kill her. Not anymore. Didn't she realize that? Because the day he told her that, Hell would freeze over. Couldn't she see how it messed with him when she was gone? How terrible and miserable it made him? Did she really think, after everything they'd done, that he would kill her over a silly little row?

"Stop starin' at me like you want me to slice your fuckin' throat," he spat, the full moon madness making the mess worse, even though he knew to stop, _wanted_ to stop. But those feelings were dangerous territory and so he pushed them away, reacting the only way he knew how. With violence.

It would have normally excited him, but as he ran the knife under her shirt and from neck to waist, Olive's shudder made him feel guiltier than anything ever had.

When he was finished, he scooped away his clothes from her body, leaving her only in his knit socks. With an irritated scowl, he tossed the garments out into the kitchen, looking at his hands in disgust. Olive could smell it, too - Oliver on his fingers now that he'd touched the clothes.

"You fuckin' reek of 'im," he spat, then aimed his wand down at her and blasted her with so much water that she coughed and choked in silence. "Don't you _dare_ move from that spot," he added, his cruelty never failing, no matter how heavy his chest felt to see the thick tears building in the corners of her eyes. Merlin, she was such a fuckin' idiot. _She_ was the one who didn't understand.

Scabior didn't speak to her for the rest of the day, instead spending his time chain-smoking in the kitchen or walking the perimeter outside to listen for mudbloods. When he came in for the evening and kicked his boots off, he let his eyes fall to the corner where Olive was still crumpled. Now she was curled on her side, facing away from the bed. Even in the darkness, Scabior's eyes crawled up the curve of her naked hips and waist, his mouth twisting down when he saw the small jerks that gave her crying away. Even without seeing it, he could smell the tears. But by then the middle moon was overhead and there was no remorse for what he'd done. Scabior left her shivering in the cold puddle of water and, despite the urges of violence coursing through him, somehow managed sleep.

Neither of them wanted to move the next morning. The third day was always the most exhausting. When Scabior finally grew irritated enough with Olive's unmoving position, he reached down and jerked her arm toward him, flipping her over on her back. Though her eyes were still swollen, there were no new tears to be seen. Now there was just a resigned expression on her face and she kept her eyes averted from him. It was odd behavior for her and, for the first time, it felt as if she'd truly given up. Scabior wasn't sure how that made him feel and so he sent her away to take a bath, telling her he could still smell the boy on her. Really he just needed her away for a while because he couldn't stand the look on her face.

Things were still so blurry in Olive's pounding head. The heat of the water was welcome after the chill of the wet floor through the night and she was glad to have this small refuge behind a locked door, away from the monster. The socks had been folded and put aside with care for reuse. The previous night would have been that much worse without them and she didn't want to lose what small comfort she'd been allowed. It had been one of the most miserable nights of her life, taking turns between shivering, crying, and wondering how much longer she would be alive to even need socks.

' _I'm sorry,'_ she thought, gliding a heavy hand through the water to rest on her stomach. There was nothing else to be done. It was better to die than to live like she was and she'd decided as the sun was rising to Scabior's deep breaths that she would take her own life before he did. It was better that the baby was never born anyway – things were looking good for Lord Voldemort and it would be cruel to bring a half-blood into a world of persecution. It might have been different if it were a child born out of genuine love. But there was no point to bringing a baby into a world that was shrouded in hate, born from rape.

' _And something even worse than hate and rape,'_ she thought, the fist on her stomach clenching. Those strange feelings she got when she thought of how much Scabior had done _for_ her instead of against her – those were the worst. The hours she spent the night before admiring how much restraint he must have exercised around her made her feel sick with herself. Wondering in awe how he hadn't killed her after experiencing those urges first hand…it amazed her. These thoughts, the awe of him, it was the cruelest thing he'd done to her yet. And she was so afraid of the strange feelings that she vowed to end herself and this foolishness.

Olive wondered how she would do it. She wasn't sure if she could _Avada_ herself. No doubt it would be the easiest, but she wasn't sure it was even possible. The less violent, the better. If it came down to it, she would find a way to hang herself, but after living in nothing but violence for the past half year, she wanted to go peacefully. Maybe poison. Hell, she could try and drown herself right then if she wanted.

Despite the drowsiness, despite the dizziness, her head snapped to the cupboard which hung on the wall. If she was going to do it, she should just do it, right? Olive's vision danced as she focused on that wooden cupboard. Even with heavy limbs, she pushed herself from the warm water, barely noticing the way goose bumps crawled across her skin.

Scabior, laying on his bed with a scowl, heard her leave the water. Irritated at thinking she'd finished already, he drew a breath to scold her from the bedroom. But, he heard the water splash again and his mouth snapped shut with both annoyance and relief.

Olive brought the bottle down into her lap, squinting her eyes to try and read the instructions. She didn't need enough to kill her, just enough to make her fall asleep. The water would do the rest.

After living with Scabior, one came to realize that he woke with a start several times a night. A bottle of sleeping draught was always kept in the medicine cabinet so that, on particularly bad nights, he could sneak off to self-medicate. Holding the bottle up to the light, Olive could see it was more than half full, which meant there was more than enough to do the job without depending on the water to drown her.

The high-pitched ringing was back in her ears, along with the metallic taste. Part of her yearned for a cigarette, though she had other means of making the vile taste stop and it was right there in the palm of her hand. Olive struggled to see the small print on the bottle, managing to read that one teaspoon was enough for a restful sleep. There was at least a half a cup left in the bottle.

No part of her was afraid, only sad. By the few who might remember her, she would be recalled as a cowardly monster. But they would never understand what she'd been put through. None of _them_ would have made it this far.

With steady hand – not a single tremor – Olive uncorked the bottle, grimacing at the slight noise it made.

Scabior sat up, a feeling of alarm flooding through his stomach. The little pop he'd heard was distinct and familiar, though he couldn't place it.

"What're you doin'?" he demanded in a loud tone, standing from the bed with a chilly feeling spreading through his stomach.

If Olive was unsure before, hearing Scabior's alarm gave her no choice. If she backed out now, he'd surely kill her himself once he found out what she was going to try. The bottle was at her lips and the liquid drained before he made it to the door.

' _I'm sorry,'_ she thought for the second time, returning her hand to her stomach. Olive's eyes closed as the water welcomed her, enveloping her inch by inch as her body relaxed. It felt peaceful, like she was floating, and she was glad for such an easy death.

The draught worked fast. Somewhere beyond her drug-induced haze, she could hear Scabior screaming out and banging on the door, which she was glad she'd locked. But then, with one last breath, the sound was lost as her ears slid under the water, followed by her mouth and then nose.

It was the most peaceful moment she'd had since before the war.


	22. Chapter 22

_EDITED: 08/17/2015_

_AN: I'm apologizing now for the story timeline. I know it's jacked up if you actually start at the beginning and put it on paper. In the beginning, I wasn't writing with any set time-frame, but I should have realized that was going to be a disaster with both Battle of Hogwarts having a specific date and Olive being pregnant. I was thinking Olive was farther along than what's actually possible and it made a mess of my timeline. I fixed it the best I could. Yay for iffy continuity! This chapter was a massive 40 handwritten pages (the biggest chapter I've ever written for any fan-fic), so I hope you enjoy! - DC_

Scabior knew he could break through the door faster than locating a wand in their mess of a room. Something was wrong, every inch of him on high alert. That feeling in his gut drove his shoulder into the door until it spat a nasty cracking noise and gave way.

It took all of two seconds to assess the situation. That little popping noise had been the cap from his sleeping draught, the empty bottle floating in the water. It was a sound now forever cemented in his mind. Olive looked angelic under the surface, her hair floating in a gentle motion.

The rest was a blur. Later, he wouldn't be able to recall more than bits and pieces. Pulling her out onto the floor. The way the water clung to his shirt. Pure panic when she wouldn't take a breath, when he felt no pulse. Fucking hell, why wouldn't she breathe? Scabior tried time and time again to get her to heave, shoving his fingers deep into her throat. When that prompted no reaction, he tried mouth-to-mouth like the muggles did.

"Wake up," he said, resorting to shaking her shoulders. There was no movement, no small twitch under her cooling skin. _"Wake up, Olive."_ Scabior's voice, usually collected, was thick with panic, his heart pounding against his throat. "Just take a fuckin' breath, _please!"_

Scabior pressed the back of his shaking hand to his mouth, staring down at her in disbelief. An unfamiliar burn pressed against his eyes. There was nothing he could do, Olive was dead.

Scabior sucked in a huge breath, eyes opening to the blackness of night. A headache was beginning at the center of his forehead and his breathing was still ragged. Next to him, a jerking shook the bed and he reached out in instinct, pulling Olive tight against him. It was just another nightmare. She was there with him, wasn't she? Warm and breathing. Another jerk ravaged through her and he shushed into her hair, not sure if she was even awake, but trying to make the jerking stop.

Finding her in that bathroom, thinking she was dead, it was one of the worst moments of his life. It was worse than Azkaban. And if he ever went back to that vile place, he was sure the image of her lifeless body would be his main cause of despair. It was the most helpless he'd ever felt in his life. Finally, he'd managed to gag her and get most of the water and draught out of her stomach, but he always woke during that moment he nearly gave up. Scabior did not like feeling helpless. He did not like that it was _her_ who nearly brought tears to his eyes. It made him feel out of control, like she held the puppet strings instead of the other way around. He wouldn't stand for it. If there was one thing he wouldn't allow, it was a loss in the control he exerted. Control was everything to him.

For the first three days after the tub incident, she'd slept without waking. Scabior feared she would just sleep forever. Day and night he stayed by her side, just to make sure she kept breathing.

On the third day when she woke up, he gave her back her voice. It had been nearly two weeks since then and she still hadn't spoken. Scabior asked her question after question – how was she feeling, was she hungry, _why would she do that to him_ – but she never answered. It was maddening. The day before, he'd lost his reserve and resorted to _Crucio._ It was only to hear her make noise, at least that's what he told her. She didn't disappoint. The frustration took over and he held it for far longer than he should have, her screams filling every empty space in the tent.

Scabior drew Olive tight to his chest, trying to quell the jerks and jitters than ran through her. He knew he'd overdone it yesterday, but he was just _so angry_ that she wouldn't speak. She was facing him now, their chests together, skin against skin. He had one arm under her neck and the other around her waist, Olive's face near his shoulder where little hot puffs of her breath skimmed along his skin. Another jitter ran through her and Scabior pursed his lips. Even as a child, he'd always been destructive, but this was the first time he feared he'd gone too far. She was his creation. Sure, she was clever before he entered her life, but now she was _more._ A monster, she would say. Scabior would agree, but with more pride. Olive was a survivalist, strong-willed with a chilling set of manipulation skills and the ability to be downright frightening if she pleased. For once, he felt he had an equal in the world and though he'd never been one for company, the thought of a world without Olive in it seemed so dull and lonely. That was a dangerous thought to be having.

"Doesn't matter," he said to himself, Olive's hair tickling his lips. "You aren't dead."

Olive stilled in his arms, not drawing the slightest breath. It had been impossible to tell in the pitch black that she was awake. Those three words, those three syllables, that followed were packed with so much sorrow and self-loathing that Scabior's chest tightened.

"No, I'm not," Olive said.

She said nothing the next day. Nothing the day after that. And it was on the third day that she planned to take her life again. Scabior ruined it all before she even got the makeshift noose around her neck. Olive had debated on stabbing herself, but the thought of another mark on her once pretty skin soured her stomach. She should have taken the knife over the rope. It would have been done by now.

Scabior had been furious to find her fashioning the noose, but he only struck her once. Now he was even more suffocating than before, keeping her wrapped tight against him every night and never letting her out of his sight during the day.

Silence. More and more silence, day after day. Scabior was drowning in it. And it wasn't just the silence that was gnawing at him. He hadn't properly slept in days. His already uneasy sleep was now disrupted with the fear that she would slip out from under his arms in the night. The silence and the sleep deprivation were wearing him thin and he was beginning to feel on edge.

"Eat," he demanded, sitting a plate in front of her that carried a few apple slices and a handful of crackers. Their food supply was beginning to run toward the skimpy side, but Scabior couldn't bring himself to leave her.

Olive said nothing. Not that he was surprised. While her eyes were once sharp and challenging, they now seemed hollow and resigned. Even though her stomach growled fiercely, she never acknowledged the food. She never acknowledged him, either. All she ever did was lay curled on her side.

"Olive, _eat,"_ he demanded. Still nothing. Exhaustion ached behind his eyes and in that moment he hated her for making him feel like this. If it had been anyone else, he'd just fucking kill them and be done with it. _"Eat."_

Scabior watched her mouth tighten, a small line appearing on the edge of her lips. She was afraid. This small detail was something that never went unnoticed by him. It was always when she was scared and nervous, though he'd never seen her wear the tiny line on such a vacant face. So she was there with him – she was _present –_ she was just ignoring him.

"Get up," he said, swatting the food and sending the plate crashing to the floor. Scabior dug his hands into her arms and flung her out on top of the discarded apples and crackers. The tiny line near her mouth become more prominent, but at least she was moving, trying to get up from her hands and knees. "Come on," he demanded, picking her up by a handful of hair and shoving her toward the kitchen. Olive shuffled with her head down, the chill of the tent clinging to her bare skin. Scabior hung behind, but followed a few minutes later, tossing a shirt, a pair of trousers, and Olive's boots onto the table. "Get dressed," he said. "We're going to the pub."

"I'm not hungry," she said, refusing to look at him. If she looked at him, he would know she was lying. It didn't matter anyway. Not a second after the words left her mouth, her stomach let out a terrible growl. The air grew tense and still.

"Did you just lie to me?" he asked, voice even, like he was scolding a child. But there was definite anger under those words, frustration laced in each syllable. Scabior took a step toward her and she stiffened, awaiting impact. He didn't disappoint. Olive's cheek was on fire from the sharp crack of his backhand, her eyes watering from the blow. _"Did you lie?"_ he asked again, voice tense.

Olive didn't answer, so he hit her again. And again. There was nothing but silence and the sharp smacks which faded into more monstrous sounding thuds as his fist closed. It seemed to go forever and at some point Olive realized she'd begun sobbing. Everything was fuzzy in her vision and a deep throbbing had grown in the back of her head, where she'd split her scalp in the alley. She didn't remember falling to the floor, but she remembered looking up at him, sobbing, trying to block his hits.

Then he hit her so hard the room spun and she lost control of her body, stomach expanding for the shortest moment before she could right it. Olive could tell the damage was done by the stillness of the room. With one shuddering breath, she looked up at him towering over her.

"What the fuck was that?" he asked, tone so even and conversational that the hairs on her arms stood straight up. Olive was on her butt, framed by the table, facing him. The amazing thing about Scabior was that no matter how angry or worked up he got, his complexion never grew red. But, she knew by the strained muscles in his neck and the tightness of his jaw that he was near the breaking point.

Olive opened her mouth, then closed it, then opened it again, but no words would come out. All she could manage was a small shake to her head. Some days Olive wanted to die. But on those days, she never wanted Scabior to be the one who did it.

"Show me your stomach," he said, so calm it bordered on eerie. Olive swallowed a thick knot in her throat and shook her head again. For the longest moment, they just stared at each other. Olive was the first to move, scooting under the table, propelled backwards by her hands and feet. She watched him disappear as she went under the table, saw the measured step he took before he flipped the table away. _Aperio,_ the spell which returned her to her natural state, hit her right as she flipped toward the floor, staggering to stand and run through the tent flap. Olive felt her stomach blossom and held back a sob.

It made no matter that she was naked – the chilly drizzle outside went unfelt against the hot fear running through her. Everything hurt, her face, her neck, her arms, anywhere he'd managed to hit her. The pain never slowed her, but her swollen stomach did. It was awkward and made it difficult to run. Behind her, she could hear Scabior's steps, measured and unyielding. He wasn't even jogging.

Olive was unfamiliar with the territory, but she heard a splash and ran left toward it. There was no way she could outrun him, not on her best day, and definitely not pregnant. Even if she could, the Vow would kill her. When she died, it would be on her terms. So her best option was to hide until he calmed down. Leaves slid under her feet and she nearly fell, but she righted herself and cut through some thick trees, praying he didn't see. All she heard was silence and she clamped a hand over her mouth, trying to muffle the sound of her heaving breaths. Wasn't he right behind her? Olive's head darted from side to side, looking for any clue he was near. Had she already lost him? Not wanting to lose her lead, she pressed farther into the thick trees toward the sound and smell of water.

Yes! There it was. Olive could see the lake up ahead, the smooth surface interrupted only by small ripples the wind had caused. Cautious eyes skirted the opening, looking for any sign that he was near. Nothing met her eyes and ears except nature. One careful foot left the thick trees, then the next. On the other side of the lake, there was a steep bank which was mostly covered by a large tree whose limbs curled down into the water. If she could make it there, she would be mostly out of sight. And if she saw movement, she could sink under water and mask her scent.

Two steps, no issues. A third. A fourth. When her toes met the cold water, his dark voice rang out from behind her.

"Don't make me follow you into that lake, Olive. I don't like bein' cold."

There wasn't time to think. There was no reasoning. Olive launched herself into the water, half-sobbing, trying to get as far away from him as possible. Not a second later there was the splash of Scabior entering the water. Slow motion didn't do the moment justice. No matter how hard she flailed and kicked, the water was slowing her every movement. Finally she made it far enough out that her feet didn't touch and she did her best to swim away though it was more a pathetic doggie paddle with her stupid pregnant belly.

"You're not going to outswim me," he said behind her, catching her ankle in his hand. Olive cried out and wrenched her foot free. "This is just pissin' me off more."

She wasn't sure where she was trying to swim to now that hiding in the bank was out of the question, but she kept pressing further into the water. Distance was all she could hope for. But, he was right – he could outswim her. A strong hand caught her elbow and she knew she wouldn't wrench free that time. Though she tried. And tried again when his free hand took her other elbow. Scabior pulled her back against his chest and she realized with dismay that he was tall enough to reach the bottom while she was wildly kicking her legs to stay above the surface.

" _Whose is it?"_ he demanded, pulling her elbows behind her so sharply that she let out a yelp. This was all her fault. She should have done something about the baby earlier instead of putting it off and putting it off. Now look at the mess she'd caused.

Apparently, that was too long of a silence for Scabior, who wanted answers immediately. Before Olive could draw a full breath, he pushed her under the water.

' _Hold still, hold still,'_ she urged herself, trying to quell the panic. If she struggled, he may get worse. But those thoughts only stayed with her for the first thirty or so seconds. Scabior's hands were an iron grip, keeping her elbows pinned behind her with no sign in budging. All reason went out the window when her lungs began to ache. Olive lashed her legs out, trying desperately to rip her arms from his hands. Scabior wasn't moving. A strangled noise escaped her, bubbles of precious air running for the same surface she was trying to reach. Colors were dancing behind her closed eyes and Olive bucked again, squirming wildly, doing anything she could to get free and breathe.

Then she was moving upward and broke the surface. That was the biggest breath she'd ever drawn, hard and gasping. But one was all she got before Scabior pushed her beneath the water once again. One breath wasn't enough. Immediately, her lungs were burning and there was a heavy pressure in her throat. Olive kept kicking, bucking her hips, tugging her arms. Then her body went into survival mode and tried to draw a breath.

The cold water sucked down her throat and she coughed, then gasped another breath full of water. When Scabior allowed her to break the surface a second time, she coughed so hard that her vision went black. The water snaked up her throat and gushed over her chin. By natural reaction she heaved, but there was nothing in her stomach to come up. Another series of coughs produced a few more mouthfuls of water.

" _It's yours,"_ she croaked out, trying to get a word in before her dunked her again. Scabior pulled her elbows apart and brought them to either side of his ribs, Olive's back tight against his chest. Scabior was hardly winded while she drew loud, gasping gulps of air. An involuntary shudder ran down her when his hot breath skimmed her neck and she felt him smirk against her ear, drawing a long sniff from her hair.

"If it's mine," he said darkly, his lips skimming her earlobe, "Then why would you hide it from me for so long?"

This was dangerous territory. Olive didn't want to go back under, but if she answered incorrectly, it was inevitable. "I-," she started, but stopped. What could she say? Scabior gave her a shake and she spit out, "I don't know!"

"You know what I think?" he asked, releasing one of her elbows and raising his free hand to brush away the wet hair on her neck. "I think you fucked that Weasley boy. And probably that Malfoy brat, like a slut."

"I didn't!" she screamed, but he wasn't hearing it.

"And I'm sure you fucked that Oliver. Probably Greyback, too," he said, hand sliding to the back of her neck and pressing her down a few inches into the water. Olive let out a panicked whine, kicking her legs harder to stay afloat. "I think one of those twats knocked you up and you hid it from me 'cause you knew I'd kill it before it drew its first breath."

"You _will not_ hurt my child."

Olive had no idea where it came from. All she knew was that if her child was dying, it was with her and on her terms.

"Your child," Scabior said slowly, gripping her neck so hard that his nails dug into her flesh. Olive shuddered, knowing her mistake before he said it. "Not ours."

Then she was under the water again, held by her elbow behind her back and the pressure on her neck. This time she had a hand free and reached around, trying to pry his wrist away. Olive clung at his hand, wriggled against him, kicked her legs, but it was no use. Everything inside her body felt like it was on fire and she began to get disoriented, not sure which way was up and down. The clutching at his wrist was no longer to remove his hand, but to anchor herself. But then her hand lost touch with his, her legs became still, her heart slowed. This was it. Scabior was killing her.

Cold air was the first thing she felt. Olive wasn't aware of when the transition happened, but now her chest was against his and he had one arm wrapped around her shoulders, the other at her throat. The only thing offering her breathing room was the swell of her stomach between them. Scabior's face swam in and out of focus, but it was still as tense and tight as before.

"Don't kill me," she said, voice drowsy and breathless. "It's yours, I promise, it's yours. I can't take anymore." And that was the truth. Olive looked exhausted, her head lobbing to the side.

"Beg me not to kill you."

There wasn't an ounce of fight left in her, but Olive would always have her pride. Fat tears welled under her lashes, but she looked him in the eye. "Please."

"Please _what?"_

A jerk ran through her body, then a second. "Please don't kill me."

"And?"

"And please don't kill the baby."

Scabior's fingers tightened around her throat. "I don't think you mean it," he said, drawing a long breath of her scent. "I'm not seeing enough tears." The words were barely out of his mouth before he was trying to force her back into the water.

"No, no, no!" she screamed, clutching onto the front of his shirt. "Please Scabior, _please!"_ Now she openly sobbed and swatted his hand away from her throat, burying her face in her chest. Scabior rested his hands on her shaking shoulders. For just a brief moment, she thought he may have realized how cruel he was being. But the moment came and passed.

"Please what, Olive? Say it again like you mean it. You'd better sob when you beg me."

" _Please!"_ she cried, heavy sobs racking her entire body. "Please don't kill me or the baby!"

Scabior's hands snuck back to her elbows, then he began dragging her out of the water. "We'll see," he said, the darkness in his tone making her shudder. The air outside the water made goose bumps erupt all over Olive's body. She was stumbling in the brush, trying to keep up with Scabior's quick pace. When she lost her footing, he just kept dragging her by the wrist through the briars. Twigs and jagged rocks cut into her legs, but she didn't dare protest. All she could do was keep sobbing, but at least that's what he wanted.

Scabior dragged her clear into the tent and pushed her toward the toppled table.

"Don't you fuckin' move."

Olive did as she was told, keeping her face down toward the floor. Through the pool of tears in her eyes, she could see her legs were covered in mud and small cuts. Scabior's heavy footsteps, squishing with water-filled boots, crossed back to Olive and he knelt in front of her, jerking her head back by her hair. When she yelped in pain, he forced a vial to her mouth and emptied the contents. He threw the bottle aside and stood, looking down on her with crossed arms.

"Was that poison?" she asked, surprisingly calm.

"Veritaserum."

Olive nodded, looking back down at the floor. Maybe poison was better.

"Did you fuck that Weasley boy?" he asked, watching her with sharp eyes.

"No," she blurted out, unable to control the way it bubbled up her throat. The only sensation comparable was just earlier when she coughed up the water. It was uncomfortable and invasive. Olive was still crying, but it had slowed. Right now she was safe, as long as his questions didn't wander too far.

"Good girl," he cooed. "And did you fuck that Malfoy git?"

"No."

Olive was afraid to look up at him. It was disgusting, but some small part of her was glad he was happy with her behavior. She didn't want him to see that in her eyes. Calling her a good girl made a strange shiver run through her and she was ashamed.

"What about Oliver?" he asked. This was the one that bothered him most. They both knew it.

"No."

"But you wanted to?"

"Yes."

Scabior's backhand flew out so fast that she didn't gasp until after it was over. He continued as if it had never happened.

"Did you let Greyback fuck you?"

"He raped me," she said, crossing protective arms over her swollen belly. It seemed large to her because she wasn't used to it, but now that she got a good look, she knew she still had a few months to go.

"Did you ever want him to fuck you?"

"No."

"Good. Do you wish you'd of listened to me now about not trusting him?"

Olive's eyes darkened when they darted up to meet his, but she tore them away. "Yes," she said, barely above a whisper.

"How many twats have you let fuck you, Olive?"

Now she turned her dark eyes back to him, a snarl curling her lips. "You're the only twat I've let fuck me."

Another sharp crack cut through the room. Her face already ached from earlier and now both cheeks were stinging again. Like before, Scabior continued as if he hadn't hit her.

"What about the wolf?"

"I didn't _let_ him fuck me."

"But you let me?"

Scabior smirked, eyes ablaze in wickedness. He already knew the answer, he just wanted to hear her say it.

"Yes," she said, loathing in her voice, "I let you fuck me."

"And sometimes you liked it?"

"Yes."

"Say the whole thing, Olive."

The Veritaserum wouldn't force her to, but she knew better than to disobey. What little of her skin that wasn't covered in bruises was flaming red. "Sometimes I liked it when you fucked me."

"Just like you like it when I tell you what a good girl you are?"

A more violent shudder ran up her spine. He fucking knew. He knew the disgusting reaction her body had to his words. Olive clamped her teeth, trying to keep the word down, fighting the influence of the Veritaserum. "Yes," she choked out, clenching her fists in anger and embarrassment.

Scabior grabbed her under the arm and jerked her to her feet, pressing her into the counter, his chest to her back. He nuzzled into her damp hair, his breath warm against her ear. _"Good girl,"_ he said, mocking her and she wasn't sure there was ever a moment she hated him more. Especially after his words sent goose bumps down her arms. Scabior wouldn't let that go unnoticed and he ran his hands down the prickled skin.

"Now, you'd better answer my next question how I want or you're going to be in a lot of trouble. Do you understand?"

Olive swallowed before choking out a yes. One of his hands snaked down to rest on her swollen stomach. "Did I do this to you?" he asked.

She could feel how tense he was and wondered what exactly the answer was that he wanted. Not that it mattered.

"Yes," she said, hunching her shoulders away from him in case he lashed out.

But again to make sure he asked, "This is my baby?"

"Yes."

Neither of them moved nor spoke for what seemed like forever.

"Why did you hide it from me?"

Olive shuddered, fearing the answer. "Because I was afraid," she said, looking down at his hand on her stomach. It was both warm and threatening.

"What were you afraid of?"

A beat of silence passed.

"You."

Scabior's warm breath skimmed her shoulder and she could feel him smiling against her skin. Was it possible for two humans to exist that were sicker than them?

"You're filthy," he finally said. "Go draw a bath." And that was it. Scabior went into the bedroom before her brow could even tuck. What the fuck? No screaming? No more backhands or punches? Just…nothing. Surely he wasn't going to act like it hadn't happened.

Olive stood there for a moment, stunned and confused. Maybe he was up to something. That had to be it. She debated on confronting him, but wasn't feeling so brave after being beaten twice and nearly drowned. So she did as she was told and went to the bathroom, drawing a hot bath.

While the tub was filling, Olive took the chance to try and wash her face. The swelling was minimal. Just her lip and left eye this time. But an array of colorful bruises were splattered across her face. With shaking hands, she lifted water from the tap and pressed her fingers to the tender skin. Everything hurt and she tried to be gentle, but a strangled noise escaped her.

"Let me do it."

Olive jumped, not realizing he was back. Again, she did as she was told and turned toward him, standing still while he dug through the cabinet and pulled out a salve. This was the side of him that got her in trouble. It was astounding how gentle his fingers could be when it was those same hands that had caused the damage in the first place. When he was done, he cocked his head just slightly to the side and stared at her. It was so unnerving that she looked down at her feet.

"You look so pretty like that," he finally said.

"Covered in bruises?" she asked miserably.

"Only when they're mine."

A jerk ran down her. Olive wondered how he could say such disgusting things and make it seem romantic. She didn't say anything. Instead they just stared at each other, the silence stretching into uncomfortable territory when Scabior broke into a smirk and told her to get into the tub.

The water was hot, stinging at the cuts on her legs, but it stole away the chill that was gnawing at her. A small gasp slipped through her lips when she leaned back and dipped her head in. How could something feel so nice and be painful at the same time? It reminded her of Scabior.

Then she felt his hands on her throat and she bolted up, spitting water away from her mouth. Panic thrummed in her chest and she waited for a backhand.

"Let me wash your hair," he said, voice even and low.

"I can wash it myself," she said, pride getting the best of her. She refused to look at him or else he might see the uncertainty of her words.

"I want to do it."

Olive swallowed, chewing the inside of her lip. What if he tried to drown her? Surely if he'd wanted her dead, he'd of done it without the theatrics of putting her in the bath. Afraid to push her luck, she gave a curt nod. Scabior fiddled around for a moment and then his hands were lathering her hair. At first it put her on edge, but the longer his hands were there, the less scary it became. When his fingers began to massage her scalp, she allowed herself to relax. It made her feel drowsy and she closed her eyes, tipping her head farther into his hands.

"Does it feel nice?" he asked, voice still as low as before. There was something else there, a darkness, and Olive thought maybe he enjoyed the control it gave him.

"Yes," she said, the word bubbling up her throat as before. She wondered how long the Veritaserum would last.

"What are you thinking?" he asked, fingers digging into the nape of her neck, lost in her hair.

"That you're a control freak."

Scabior's fingers stopped and she froze. But he laughed, that warm laugh that made her stomach flop. Then he tipped her back, washing away the suds. Olive was still afraid he would hold her under, but she was brought right back up. Scabior stood and began unbuttoning his shirt.

"You're just now figuring that out?" he asked, boyish grin on his face. Olive wondered how he could take his own monstrosity so lightly.

"No," she said, watching him toss his wet shirt to the ground, then unbuckle his belt. Silence fell between them while he finished undressing and then he made Olive scoot forward, entering the tub behind her. Scabior's skin was cold and clammy. When he pulled her back against his chest, legs on either side of hers, she shied away from the chill, but he pulled her back and held tight.

"It's your fault," he said, burying his nose in her hair. "And I'm not done with the questions."

Olive stiffened, but realized it would do no good to fight. With a resigned face, she tipped her head back into his chest and looked up at him. He noticed the little line was back near her mouth. "Ask and you shall receive," she said darkly, both knowing she had no choice in the matter.

"Why were you so upset about Oliver?"

All the air went out of Olive and she pulled her head away, staring down at her lap.

"Because with Oliver, the roles were reversed. I felt like I was you and he was me. I didn't want to kill him because that would be like you killing me."

Scabior was quiet, soaking it all in. Then, again, he drew her back to his chest, wrapping his arms around her and letting his lips find the curve of her neck.

"Did you love him?" he asked.

Olive couldn't help the laugh that snaked up her throat. "No, I barely knew him. You are the most jealous person I have ever met in my entire life."

She could feel it again, his smile against her skin. And so she smiled, too, because she felt safe for that moment. But his next question wiped her face clean.

"Do you love me?"

That was unchartered waters for the both of them. Olive bit her lip, trying to force the unknown answer down, her heart pounding.

"I don't know," she finally blurted, the Veritaserum winning in the end. At least it wasn't a yes, but it was more than she ever wanted to give him.

"You're angry that I asked that," he said, brushing the wet hair off her neck so he could run his lips along the soft skin there.

"Yes," she said.

"And humiliated."

"Yes."

"I think you deserve that much for keepin' secrets from me."

They both grew quiet, though Scabior seemed to be in a much better mood than earlier. But that was life with Scabior. He'd probably be hitting her again within the hour.

"How far along are you?" he finally asked.

"I don't know," she said with a shrug. Scabior hummed in reply, but he was distracted, dragging the tip of his nose along the hair behind her ear.

"How long have you known?"

Olive bit her lip, resting a hand on the swell of her stomach.

"Since Greyback raped me. I was in disguise before that, I had no idea."

Scabior's teeth grazed her ear and warmth shot down between her thighs. "Do the math on it," he said, voice distracted as he drew another deep breath.

Olive thought for a moment, trying to place a likely month as the first time they'd had sex. She knew it was August when she stole Xavier's identity, but there was snow the first time he raped her.

"December, I think, is the earliest," she said, her own voice distracted now that his hand snuck around and was resting next to hers over the baby. "It was Christmas Eve when you made me take the Vow."

Scabior _tsked._ "That was the day the little Malfoy twat kissed you, wasn't it?"

Olive shuddered. "Yes. I should have known he was a coward," she said, surprised by the heat in her voice. Still, he'd left her to die and she was jaded.

Scabior chuckled against her hair. "You don't fancy him anymore?"

"No, he's just a scared little boy."

Scabior's free hand went to rest on her neck, index finger tracing the hollow of her throat. "Yes, he is," he agreed. "So, December would put us at?"

Olive thought for a moment, doing the math in her head. "August or September, I think."

It was hard to concentrate with the way his fingers were tracing over her throat. "You're pretty big to have that much longer to go."

Well, she wouldn't know. If he'd of asked her the current date, she would have laughed. "Dad said my Mum got really big, really fast. He showed me a picture once when she was only five months pregnant and she looked ready to go into labor. How much longer is it, anyway? I don't even know what month it is."

"April 1st," he said, going back to nibbling her ear. "You've got to keep track of the full moons or they'll sneak up on you."

April 1st? And she was already this big? It had to have been one of the first times he raped her. Even still, that put her just barely into her second trimester. It seemed impossible that she showed so much, so quickly. Of course, the war had also thinned her out to skin and bones. That, with her genetics, had her looking closer to six months.

"When's the next one?" she asked, using her free hand to feel the marred skin Greyback had left behind. Now the scar was stretched tight across her skin.

"April 12th," he said, then darkly adding, "My birthday."

The idea of Scabior having a birthday was just as absurd as him once having been a child or having family.

"I missed mine," she said. "It was back before you know I was Booke."

Scabior nipped the soft skin beneath her ear and the warmth between her legs grew. "When was it?" he said, fingers around her throat tightening ever slightly.

"September 29th," she said, voice hoarse.

"We won't miss it next year," he promised, tightening his fist around her throat. "As long as you're good."

Olive let out a quick whine, heart thrumming in her ears, and felt him begin to grow and push into the small of her back. But as quickly as it began, it was over, and he dropped his hand from her neck.

"I hated you that night you were with Oliver," he admitted, wrapping his arms around her and drawing her to him so tight that it was difficult to breathe. "I thought I'd go mad when I heard you giggle in the alley."

Olive struggled to draw a breath, but managed to scoff before a smile took her face.

"It sounded so stupid," she said. "I just channeled the girls at Hogwarts who walked around with love bites and too much perfume."

Scabior wrestled his mouth to the curve of her neck, still holding her tight against him. "You weren't one of those girls?" he asked, laughing at the ridiculous thought. It started as a nibble against her neck, but then he bit her and sucked hard.

Olive squirmed, real laughter bubbling up her throat. "No, I wasn't," she said, trying to get away, but failing.

"I bet I give better love bites than they had," he said, smile evident in his voice. Merlin, her stomach flopped again.

"Now I look like a slut," she said dryly, though there was no real anger in her tone.

"My slut," he said, picking a new spot and making another mark. The heat of his mouth was spreading through her and she forced her thighs together when he cupped her breasts.

"They're bigger," he said, peeking over her shoulder as if to make sure.

"Of course they are, I'm pregnant," she said with a snicker.

Scabior found a third spot on her neck and nipped it with his teeth before sucking it so hard that she yelped. "Then as soon as you have that one, we'll have another," he said once he tore his mouth from her skin. Olive squeezed her thighs together more tightly.

"You could always just ask me to _make_ them bigger," she said with a laugh.

"I'd rather build a Scabior army," he said, nuzzling his face into her hair again.

Olive's heart hammered and she knew he heard it because he chuckled against her ear. As if to make up for it, she jutted her chin out and declared, "Girls get my last name."

"No, they don't."

"Yes, they _do._ "

" _No._ End of discussion."

Scabior held still for a moment, waiting to see if she argued further. When she looked down at her lap, he smirked. "You're learnin'. I didn't even 'ave to hit you that time."

Gone was their playful banter. "Why do you take everything from me?" she asked. He hummed into her hair, lost for a moment in her scent.

"Why do you think I take everything from you?"

The words began snaking up her throat, Veritaserum still active. "Because you're selfish and you're jealous. You know if I'm alienated, I won't have anything except you."

"You're sharp, love."

That was it. That was all the answer she got from him. Then he was getting out of the bath, stepping away from her, but she needed more answers.

"I have more questions," she demanded, clenching her teeth. Scabior had begun to dry himself and now looked at her with a lazy smirk.

"I didn't have the Veritaserum. How do you know I won't lie?"

"Because you always tell the truth," she said, standing, stepping out after him.

"And what if I don't want to answer?" he said, smirk growing across his face. He would amuse her for a while.

"Then you won't answer," she said, taking a seat on the edge of the tub and crossing her arms over her chest. Scabior studied her for a moment, then closed the distance between them and tugged her arms away, exposing her chest. Olive put her hands on the tub to either side of her thighs and Scabior stood back to admire.

"Three questions, just to humor you," he said. That was better than nothing and she would take what she could get. "But we're playin' my way," he added, kneeling down in front of her, resting his elbows on her knees and staring at her with those wicked eyes.

Olive shifted. "What do you mean?"

"If you're going to ask me, I want you to ask what you most want to know. So what do you want to know most of all?"

Though she knew Scabior didn't fight fair, she was shocked at his power play. The things she would have asked him were not necessarily the things she most wanted to know. She wasn't expecting the first question that flew out of her mouth.

"Do you love me?"

Scabior smiled, triumphant. "I thought as much. Are you embarrassed that you wanted to know that most of all?"

"Yes," she said, clenching her teeth so hard it was a wonder they didn't crack. "I don't want you to answer."

"But you've already asked," he said, thoroughly enjoying her humiliation. "Why don't you want me to answer?"

"I'm afraid of what you'll say," she blurted.

"Are you afraid I'll say no?"

"No," she said, "I'm afraid you'll say yes."

"I wouldn't know if I did," he said with a shrug. "I s'pose you're the closest I've ever come to loving someone. I love makin' you cry. I love hurting you and embarrassing you. I love controlling you, and your pride, and makin' you give in."

Olive chewed her lip while the silence rested. "What terrible things to love," she finally said, line appearing again near her mouth.

"Well, I love when you laugh, too, but you hardly ever do."

Two hard heartbeats thrummed in her throat and Olive shifted under his weight, feeling suffocated by both his presence and his words. "I don't want to ask you any more questions," she said.

"We've already started, we're going to finish," he said. "This is what you get for demanding things from me. What's the next question you most want to know?"

Olive clenched her fists and eyes, but it was no use. The words spilled out. "Why aren't you angry that I'm pregnant?"

This was exhausting her and she hated every minute of it. The Veritaserum made her feel exposed. Scabior seemed to be in a theatrical mood, bending his face down to nuzzle her stomach. There was a little flitting feeling inside and she wasn't sure if it was the baby or her nerves. Then he looked up at her, triumph in his eyes, and pressed his lips against her belly.

"Because this gives me control over you," he said, the darkness of his words spreading chill bumps down her arms. "If you act up, I'll have to order you to hurt the baby."

Olive snarled, eyes blazing. "Then I'll refuse."

"And you'll break your Vow."

"So?"

Scabior smiled, planting a gentle kiss near her belly button. It might of seemed sweet to an outside viewer, but the power play soured the moment.

"You won't. You'll never give me the satisfaction of dying by the Vow I made you take."

"Then I'll kill myself."

Hot breath erupted over her stomach when he had the nerve to laugh. "Because that worked so well the first two times you tried. And once you've had the baby, you won't dare leave it alone with me to raise."

The thought was unsettling.

Scabior looked up at her, head cocked to the side. He was always cruel, but this was a sick, manipulative side she never knew could exist in a human being.

"You've already shown me that baby is your weakness," he said, words measured, watching her and nothing else. "And I will hold it over your head for the rest of your life." Scabior paused, allowing that to sink in before continuing. "If you want to keep fightin' me, that's your call. But I will make your life very hard and very miserable, do you understand me?"

Olive stared at him in disbelief, then looked over his shoulder at the wall. "Yes," she said, chewing the inside of her lip.

"Good. What's the next question you want to know most?"

Olive knew he was enjoying her pain and understanding of the situation. There was nothing she could do. And so now a new question popped up, one of necessity for her survival and the baby's.

"What do you want from me?" she asked, voice resigned. She refused to look at him.

"I want to control your life," he said simply.

"Oh, well, if that's all," she snapped, sarcasm dripping from each word.

"It's not," he said, the simplicity of the statement making her blood run cold. "I want to take everything from you. I want you to trust and depend on only me."

"You're disgusting," she said, lip curled in a snarl.

"I want to strip you of everything you were before me. And I want you to let me do it."

"I would never let you do it," she spat.

"You already have."

Something tightened in her chest as her mind replayed the last few months. Olive's face crumpled and she hid behind her hands. Her mind went to their hands together on the match, lighting her father's house on fire.

"Let me see you cry," he said.

" _No."_

"If you don't move your hands, I'll order you to hit yourself in the stomach."

Olive's hands clenched into fists, but she moved them away from her face, exposing the fat tears covering her cheeks. "What is _wrong_ with you?" she asked.

Scabior reached up and wiped her tears. "You already asked your three questions," he said, then bent to kiss her stomach one more time before standing. "That baby is for life, Olive. You're going to have to make up your mind about me. Either give me what I want or I will give you a very difficult life. You think things are bad now, you have no idea."

And then he left her. The moment he was out of sight, she burst into tears, even though she knew he could easily hear her.

So that was it, then. That was her choice. She could either give herself over to him or deal with his wrath every day for the rest of her life. And every time she disobeyed, he would hold the child above her head as he already displayed. Scabior was right, she wouldn't kill herself now and give him the satisfaction of knowing he'd driven her to do it.

Heavy sobs racked her shoulders and she tried to calm herself, grabbing a towel. After wiping the fog away from the mirror, she stared at her bruised and swollen face. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad. That month after they murdered Oliver's family, before the inn, that wasn't so bad. In fact, she couldn't even remember him hitting her once. Maybe she wouldn't be so bruised and swollen if she could just swallow her pride and give him what he wanted.

It had to be close to an hour that she sat in the bathroom floor, wrapped in a towel. Her hair had mostly dried, now in wild curls from not being brushed while it was wet. It was out of control, like her life.

Scabior had gone to the kitchen a while ago and she heard him right the table, then a rustling of paper. Must have been looking over maps. She wondered how he could be so unaffected by what had just happened between them. He seemed content to let her stay locked away forever if she wanted.

Olive stood, legs aching, and went to the mirror once more. It made her sick to admit, but he would probably like the way her eyes were red and swollen after an hour of tears.

Best to get it over with. She didn't have a choice. Olive stepped out into the bedroom, clutching the towel around her. One foot after another carried her to the kitchen, where Scabior sat, pouring over maps.

"If you're done wallowin' in self-pity," he said without even looking up at her, "Get dressed. I still want to go to the pub and I know you're starvin' by now."

That was true. Hunger scraped at her sides, begging for anything to fill her stomach. But, she never moved. She just stood there until he noticed she hadn't budged and looked up at her.

"Well? Go on," he said.

Olive moved toward him, watching his eyes darken when he saw her own – red-rimmed and shiny. Scabior twisted in his chair to face her. His eyes held mild curiosity, but he said nothing. She kept going until her knees brushed his. For once, she was the one looking down on him.

"Why do you want to control me?"

Scabior studied her for a long moment. "I already answered your three questions," he said.

" _Why?"_

Again, Scabior studied her – the redness of her face, the seriousness of her eyes. "Because you're dangerous," he finally answered. "You're a danger to yourself and me."

"You're too selfish for that answer," she said sourly.

"No," he said, "It's a selfish answer. I've watched you beat a woman half to death, Olive. Smash a man's head in with a rock. Murder entire families. I want you by my side."

"You wanted to control me before that," she said, jerk running through her.

"Yeah," he said. "You've always been a challenge. But tryin' to explain that part of me is like tryin' to explain why the grass is green."

"You fetishize me," she said, brow tucking. There was a time when speaking so frankly about sex would have mortified her, but that was a time before Scabior.

"Yeah," he admitted. "You're stubborn and proud and _infuriating."_

"And if you can control me, you can control anything."

Scabior nodded, still watching her with careful eyes. "I'll control you one way or another, love. It's not just for me. You're going to end up hurting yourself."

"That's not a selling point for me," she said, adjusting the towel. The kitchen was chillier than the bathroom and it clung to her shoulders. "I'd almost be relieved to mess up and hurt a pureblood. Then I wouldn't constantly be wondering about whether you're going to kill me or if I am."

Scabior reached up and fingered the edge of her towel, not moving his eyes away from the snags in the fabric. "I don't care what you want," he said, blunt as always. "You're not allowed to hurt yourself. Only I am."

He dropped the edge of the towel and looked up at her. This wasn't homicidal Scabior. This wasn't boyish charm Scabior. Olive couldn't put her finger on it, but he just seemed so _genuine_ in that moment. Genuinely fucked-up, but genuine nonetheless. And she wasn't tough Olive or damaged Olive or scared Olive. Just Olive. The two of them together made that moment seem _so real._

"Why do you want to know all this?' he asked, voice even and guarded. Olive realized for the first time that Scabior was, indeed, a human with a weakness. And his weakness was her. The proof was that he was revealing it to her when she knew he'd die before he let anyone else see. Some strange feeling throbbed in her chest, like the night he'd made her kill Oliver, but stronger. Olive clutched her towel as she knelt in front of him, sitting back on her feet.

"If I'm going to keep you happy, I have to understand what you need," she said.

Olive watched his brown eyes disappear into black, felt his hand snake around her throat.

"You shouldn't 'ave said that," he warned. "You don't know what you've just done."

"Yes, I do," she said, staring right back at him, eyes unafraid. "I can see what I've done pressing into the front of your trousers."

This was her game, too. And though he'd put her in a shitty position, she wasn't entirely helpless. If she was a fetish to him, so be it. That was the one small piece of control he'd left her. The best defense was between her legs and if it took a lifetime of that to keep him from killing her or her baby, that's what she would do.

"I'm not going to let you change your mind down the road, Olive."

"You can have your control," she said, "But you will not harm a hair on this baby's head."

Scabior watched her for a moment, then unbuckled his belt and unzipped his trousers. Olive watched his cock spring free. With a dark look, she bent and took him in her mouth. It was only a few moments before his hands were twisted in her hair. His cock grew solid in her mouth, her head propelled by Scabior's guidance.

"I'm going to take everything from you," he said, quickening the pace. "You exist to make me happy."

Something deep inside Olive was beginning to ache at his words – a coiled longing.

"Look at me," he ordered and she did, straining her eyes to meet his while continuing her assault on his cock. _"Good girl,"_ he cooed and heat exploded between her thighs. This was sick, this whole thing was sick, but she didn't want to stop. Life could be simple this way – just keep him happy. Right then she felt like she'd do anything to hear him tell her what a good girl she was again. But instead, he pulled the two fistfuls of hair taut and stood, slamming himself into her mouth over and over. Olive began to gag and drool at the intrusion, but she never took her eyes away from his.

"Fuck this," he said, pulling himself out of her mouth and dragging her to her feet. Olive's eyes were just as dark as his, her lips swollen. Scabior pushed her into the bedroom and forward onto the bed, ripping the towel away from her. She'd barely gotten up on her knees when he slammed into her from behind. Olive gave a single sharp cry, feeling stretched and whole.

Scabior grabbed her elbows and, like earlier in the lake, drew them behind her back while he pounded into her from behind.

" _Why do you exist?"_ he demanded, breathless. Each time he slammed into her, Olive gave a new cry.

" _To-make-you-happy,"_ she said through grit teeth.

Scabior pushed her face down in the mattress, her arms pinned behind her back. He started fucking her so fast that colors were dancing in front of her eyes and before she knew it, she was screaming, spiraling, riding on the wave he'd caused in her. Scabior finished soon after and she let out a whine when she felt him fill her with his warmth. He released her elbows and let his hands fall to her hips, sliding in and out of her a few more times to enjoy the way she contracted around him. Finally he pulled out of her and she winced at the slight pain.

"Now you're goin' to get dressed," he said, flipping her over to look at him. "And we're goin' to the pub to eat. Then we're goin' to come back here and I'm goin' to watch you _un_ dress. You kept me up the past few weeks. Now I'm gonna do the same to you."

Anticipation thrummed in Olive's heart. "Whatever makes you happy," she said.


	23. Chapter 23

Olive stared at the parchment in disbelief. There was a hollow pain in her chest, an empty feeling.

"I told you I'd take everything from you," Scabior said, breaking the long silence. And just when she thought he had nothing left to take, his insanity proved her wrong.

"You've gone mad," she said, her voice a hoarse whisper, eyes never once leaving the parchment. A shudder ran through her and she shifted, wincing in pain from what he'd put her through the past two days. Scabior had held true to his promise of denying her a good sleep and now exhaustion ached behind her eyes.

"You don't want to hurt the baby, do you?" he asked, ego leaking into his words. There it was again. That threat.

"No," she whispered, still staring at the parchment.

"S'not goin' to change anything," he said.

' _Yes, it will,'_ she thought, but it went unvoiced.

"Then why do it?" she asked instead.

Scabior's hand rested on the back of her neck, fingers squeezing lightly. "Because I can," he said. When she said nothing, his fingers tightened. "You've been so good the past two days," he continued, "I 'aven't even had to hit you once. You're not goin' to spoil it now, are you?"

Olive swallowed the thick knot in her throat and shook her head. "That's a good girl, Olive," he said near her ear, making a different sort of shudder run through her.

With shaking hands, she grabbed the quill and dipped it into the ink. She was moving slow, hoping he'd burst out laughing and tell her it was all a joke, but he never did. When the quill hit the parchment she stalled, a small blob building on the line.

"Do it," he said, more commanding than before, and she lost what small bit of bravery she'd mustered. Olive signed her name to the top line, watching the black ink shimmer to silver, ensuring the Ministry that her signature was legitimate. "And the line under it," he said.

The line under it was the one she dreaded. Olive tore her eyes from the parchment, turning to stare at him. It was the most miserable look Scabior had ever seen grace her face. _"The line under it,"_ he repeated, no compromise in his voice.

Olive turned back to the parchment and dipped her quill again. Her second signature was slower and sloppier, her hand not sure of the foreign letters. When it was complete, the signature went silver as the first had.

"We'll have to work on your penmanship," he said with a smirk, taking the quill from her hand and putting his name to the third line. Olive's signature was thin and shaky, the little jerks in her hand evident. Scabior's was large and dominant, well-practiced with sharp edges. Somehow they both fit the people they belonged to.

Once his signature went silver as the other two had, the parchment quivered, rising up off the table and folding itself into a bird. Its little wings gave a few pitiful flaps, then it was out through the tent flap, back to the Ministry to be filed.

Scabior crossed the kitchen and held open the tent, watching it flutter away. "We've been here too long," he said, eyes still trained to the sky. Olive watched him from across the kitchen, her arms crossed in a protective gesture. "I'm goin' out to scout for new campsites. Don't go any farther than the wards," he added. They were pushing their luck – they'd been in the same place since the night she killed Oliver and Greyback was still out there somewhere.

Olive watched him turn, taking in her face. A smirk pulled across his features, his eyes burning with arrogance. "I thought you'd be happier," he said in a smug tone, "Now your sons _and_ daughters will get your last name." And then he was gone with a sharp _crack._

Close to an hour later, she was still in the same spot, staring at the space he'd occupied.

He'd taken her name from her.

The entire time she'd been standing there, her mind was exploding, but that simple truth brought everything racing in her head to a halt. He'd taken her name away.

A great shudder ran through her whole body, then another. It was out of nowhere, with no warning, but she couldn't stop. The metallic taste flooded her mouth, the ringing screaming in her ears. Violent convulsions shook her, shaking all reason away. Her vision went black, but she couldn't tell if her eyes were closed or not. Then her knees hit the floor and then nothing.

The first thing she felt was thirst. The second was an aching in her right leg. Then she smelled piss. After a few moments of collecting herself, she tried to sit up off the ground and grunted as her leg protested. It was under her at a funny angle, muscles aching from being bent a way they weren't used to. Olive righted her leg and realized _she_ was the one who smelled like piss. The evidence was stained into the pair of Scabior's trousers that she wore. She was thirsty, but there was spittle built up in the corners of her mouth, which she wiped away with the back of her hand.

' _Only stress,'_ she told herself, forcing her body up onto her knees and then feet. The room swayed and her head pounded, but she found sure footing and drew a deep breath.

Well, that was unpleasant. Olive tried to be lighthearted about it, but deep down knew her body was beginning to break down from Scabior. She wouldn't dare tell him when he got back and have him throw yet another of her weaknesses in her face.

Olive ran a shallow bath to rid herself of the smell. While the taps were running, she flung off the soiled clothes and riffled through what clean garments they had. Not many, she found out. There were no clean trousers or socks, no pajamas. Only a handful of Scabior's shirts. Olive chose the longest and returned to the tub. It was a quick bath, only enough to rinse her skin, and then she was out and set on ridding the tent of the stench.

It made her feel more normal having something to focus on and so she gathered all their dirt-ridden clothes and bedding, then waddled down to the lake. She trekked back for the thin rope and the washboard. Normally they brought their laundry to life, letting magic to the job, but it felt nice to have something to concentrate on.

Olive set to work, sitting herself down near the edge of the lake and soaking the clothes. It was an unseasonably warm day and she let her feet drift under the water. It was still chilly, but the sort of chill she could get used to. Back and forth over the board she raked the clothes, producing suds from her wand. It was a long process, but she hummed out-of-tune and tried to whistle, though she never learned how. Washing clothes was simple and that's what Olive needed.

By early afternoon, she had the wash done. She'd strung the thin rope between two trees and hung the clothes up to dry in the warm sun. Not having something to do made her feel anxious, the metallic taste flitting once again over her tongue.

Floors. That's what she could do. Floors.

Olive retrieved the washboard and made her way back in the tent, wrinkling her nose at the stench of piss. Of course, it wouldn't seem so bad to a person with a normal sense of smell, but since she and Scabior both bore Greyback's scratches, it would be unbearable to them.

Every time her mind drifted to her signature shimmering from black to silver, Olive would give a sharp shake to her head and scrub the floor harder.

She didn't want to think about it. Sometimes Scabior wasn't so bad. The more monstrous she'd become, the more she came to realize he could be bearable at times. He'd done terrible things to her. Things she was trying to let go. Her circumstances wouldn't allow her to do anything about his past wrongs, so there was no point in dwelling on it. And sometimes his company was even enjoyable. But what he'd done that morning – what he'd forced her to do – that was beyond the regular scope of his cruelty. It had been unexpected and now had her more downtrodden than she'd ever felt before.

It was no matter. Olive gave her head another sharp shake and scrubbed at the floor a bit harder. There was nothing to be done. As the muggles say, no use crying over spilt milk. But as much as she tried to downplay the situation, she couldn't help but feel disgusted.

 _No._ Back to scrubbing. On and on she scrubbed until all of the floors were spotless. She'd gathered the stale crackers and shriveled apple slices from the bedroom floor, where they still laid from Scabior's outburst two days before. The bits of feathers and torn fabric from what used to be her bed were dragged outside where she used them as fuel for the campfire. It was late afternoon by then and chill had slipped back over the forest. Scabior still wasn't back and she wasn't sure how she felt about that.

An aching growl clawed at her stomach and she realized she hadn't eaten all day. After riffling through what food they had, she found they didn't have much left. Looking it all over, she took the last cut of beef, the carrot, and a handful of small potatoes. Then she went to work.

The tent held only the bare necessities, but they had one dull kitchen knife and one soup ladle. Olive started with the beef first, cubing each piece, and then she sliced the carrot and halved the potatoes. Unable to control her hunger, she popped a carrot slice in her mouth before putting everything in the kettle and lugging the metal monstrosity outside. There was a time in the early weeks of Snatching when they had a holder that the kettle hung from, but it had gotten left behind at some point and now they had to put the kettle directly on the flame. Olive did this, then shot water in over the other ingredients from her wand. There were no spices in the world of Snatching and though she knew she could find herbs off the land, the sun was beginning to rest and it would be dark before long.

Still no Scabior. Olive looked around for something to do, ringing beginning in her ears. Whatever had happened to her earlier when she blacked out was not something she wanted to repeat. Instead, she busied herself with collecting the laundry before the sun went down. First she folded and put away his clothes, noting the _crack_ that came from outside. She was putting on the sheets when she heard him walk into the bedroom. There was a pause and for a fleeting moment she hoped it was him and not Greyback. Olive could feel the presence at her back, closing the gap between them, and then her shirt was being pulled up a few inches in the back, exposing that she had nothing on underneath. She froze.

"Don't stop," Scabior said from behind her. He made no move to touch her, only admiring her backside. Olive did as she was told, finishing the sheets, then the pillow cases, and finally the covers. Never once did she turn toward him.

"You've been domestic today," he said, trying to fill her silence. "Don't really suit you."

"Someone had to do it," she said, smoothing a non-existent wrinkle in the covers. "And I had nothing else to do."

"I was mean to you this morning," he said simply.

"You've been mean to me since you broke into my house and tried to steal me."

"It sounds romantic when you say it like that."

Olive bit the inside of her cheek. "No," she said, dry tone dominant. "It sounds like they let a lunatic free and he made my life a living hell."

"Only sometimes," he replied. "I shouldn' 'ave been that mean to you this morning."

That was something new, something Olive wasn't used to. It caught her off-guard. She said nothing, a strong clash of emotions building in her chest.

"It won't be so bad," he continued. "I started to feel guilty about it as the day went on. Went into some muggle liquor store to find you some lollies and I got you somethin' else to cheer you up."

"A fifth of vodka?" she said dryly. Olive still kept her back toward him, cemented to the spot. He was trying to be kind and tolerable. It had to be a trick. A ploy of some sort. "What could you have possibly gotten a _pregnant woman_ from a liquor shop?"

"Well, bloody turn around and look," he said.

Olive did as she was told and turned her attention to the green monstrosity he held in his hand. For a good ten seconds she just stared at it before the smile twitched its way to the corners of her mouth. With a raised hand, she tried to cover the evidence of her grin, but trying to hide it only made it worse and one muffled giggle escaped her.

"That is… _ridiculous,_ " she finally managed to say. Olive tried to pull her hand away, but was taken by another few muted giggles.

"It's an olive," he said, smiling because she was. And it was, in fact, an olive. It was a plush toy, the most horrendous green imaginable, with a little orange hat that was supposed to be the pit. That wasn't why it was so funny. Whoever manufactured these disasters had decided to sew on long, white limbs. A mouth had been embroidered on in a toothy smile and it had two oversized googly eyes glued on that were currently looking in different directions. "Do you like it?" he asked, that boyish grin back in place.

"Absolutely," she said, reaching out to grab it. Scabior let her take a step toward him before raising it high above his head.

"Are you still cross with me?" he said, holding the plush just out of her reach. Olive's smile faltered and her entire demeanor sobered. She crossed her arms and looked down at his chest.

"I wasn't cross," she said. "Just -," he voice faltered, pride refusing the word to form.

"Just what?" Scabior prodded. Olive just shook her head, chewing the inside of her lip. "Go on, tell me," he said, lowing the olive and pressing it into her arms. He closed the gap between them and put his palms to her cheeks, raising her face. Olive's eyes stayed lowered on his shirt and he regretting taking the smile off her face. "Just what, Olive?"

"Hurt," she said, brow tucking. "Confused. Like I don't even know who I am anymore."

Scabior drank in her face, eyes flitting over the small tuck in her brow and how prominent her freckles looked against her pale skin. "You're Olive," he said, reassuring her.

"Not Olive _Westin,_ " she said, lips pulling down just the slightest bit. Scabior tucked her under his arms, resting his chin on the top of her head.

"You 'aven't been Olive Westin for a while, sweet'art."

She dug her forehead into his chest, staring down at her belly between them. "I know," she said, voice thick. Scabior pulled away and pressed his lips against her temple, then stepped back.

"Go check the stew, I need to get cleaned up," he said and then was gone. Olive nodded to the empty room and went out to the kettle. The water was brown and smelled like beef, causing her mouth to water. The stew was boiling and she stirred it enough to keep it from sticking to the bottom, but the meat wasn't entirely done yet. When she caught sight of the sky, the soup ladle was forgotten.

It was dark and clear, thousands of white pinpricks dotting the space, revealing constellations and galaxies out of her reach. It was gorgeous and the first clear night they'd seen in ages. Taken by the beauty splayed above her, Olive found a spot away from the fire and laid down on her back. She fingered the plush olive in her hands, a small grin tugging at her lips, and got lost in the twinkling show that was the sky.

A while later she had a sudden moment of awareness and could feel Scabior watching her. "Pretty, isn't it?" she said, not tearing her eyes from the sky. His feet padded against the grass and then he was sitting next to her, staring up at the same stars. He never answered and the two fell in silence, only the crackling of the fire drifting between them.

Olive could smell the soap on him, the fresh scent entwined with his own earthy musk. She tore her eyes from the glistening stars and examined him. Scabior's knees were pulled up to his chest, his long arms wrapped around his legs. In the light of the campfire, she watched his Adam's apple against his long neck, strained from looking up into the sky. Still wet hair trailed down his back, two day growth took over his chin, and dark eyes turned to stare at her over the his straight nose.

"What?" he asked. There was no annoyance in his voice, no anger. Only a mild curiosity.

"I'm no forestwife," she said sternly, so as to cover up the fact that she'd been studying him so closely. Olive tore her gaze away and looked back to the sky, glad for the darkness to cover the burning in her cheeks.

Over the past few weeks, many of the lower-born Snatchers had begun forcing mudblood girls into marriage. The girls were often shared with other men, given degrading tasks, and usually ended up dead when they proved dull and boring. They were called forestwives as a bad joke because most of them never lived long enough to make it out of the woods. "Do not ever mistake me for being that pathetic," she added for good measure.

Olive knew it was bold to say under her current circumstances, but the darkness outside acted like a shield and she felt the bravest she had in the last few days. She swallowed when he shifted toward her, but she managed to keep her face straight and eyes focused on the stars. Scabior stretched his legs out and rolled toward her, bringing his face directly above hers. Olive's entire vision was filled with his face now, his wet hair falling down and tickling her cheeks. She had no option but to meet his eyes.

It felt an eternity that they were locked in their staring contest. Scabior crept closer until she could feel each hot breath dance across her lips. Olive's heart hitched, pounding against her throat, and she lost her nerve, looking away. "I couldn't mistake you for one of them in a million years," he said.

_Thump-thump._

Olive's heart beat so hard that it took her breath away and Scabior pulled away with a smirk, then leaned down and pressed his lips to the hollow of her throat. "Smells like dinner's ready," he murmured, then stood and left her before she had a chance to reply. A long whoosh of air huffed though her lips. It took a moment to collect herself, but as soon as she did, she was up and over at the kettle, the plush olive still tucked under her arm.

Scabior had gone inside and now returned with cutlery and two wooden bowls. Olive ladled out dinner and they ate standing in silence near the fire. Scabior's eyes were trained on her nearly the entire time while Olive, aware of this, stared intently at her bowl.

Once the food was gone, she felt warm and drowsy. It was a rare comfort to feel so nice. "It was good," he said and she muttered a thanks, then the two went inside and set their bowls on the counter.

"Did you find a new campsite?" she made herself ask, keeping her back toward him. The spare lantern also set on the cabinets and she took that moment to light it. Things felt tense after their display outside and she needed space, but knew better than to take his lantern on the table.

"I did," he said. "We'll move first thing in the morning. A lot warmer there than here."

Olive gave a curt nod and then scuttled into the bedroom with the lantern, glad to have distance between them. She placed the lantern on the floor and sat on the edge of the bed, looking down at the plush olive with a sigh.

Scabior, however, was not one for space. Space meant distance and absence, neither of which he liked in relation to Olive. She'd barely had five minutes to herself before he filled the entry to the bedroom, just standing there and watching her. Olive kept her eyes glued on the toy in her hands, but she felt cornered by him and her feelings. The metallic taste flooded her mouth once more. A great twitch ran through her body, then her shoulders and arms began jerking, as they had that morning. Dread filled her, not wanting him to witness whatever was wrong with her now. She tried to control it, but the exertion only made it worse and another jerk raked through her body.

Scabior took two quick steps and was next to her, laying her back on the bed. "Hey," he said quietly, taking the plush toy away from her and tossing it to the floor. Olive's vision was getting black around the edges and a new tremor shook her. "Hey," he repeated. "It's okay, you're not a forestwife."

"No, but I'm _your_ wife. It's even worse."

The words bit through the air, sounding cruel even to her. Olive drew a deep breath, managing to keep her hands at only mild jitters. Focusing on him seemed to help. She knew she shouldn't have said something like that and braced for him to strike her, but it never came. When that became apparent, she peeked open her eyes and looked at him. Scabior was just staring at her, some strange look behind his eyes that she wasn't familiar with and didn't want to be.

"You'd rather be a forestwife," he said, eyes boring into hers. As ridiculous as it was, Olive felt a pang of regret for her words. She knew she shouldn't, not after all he'd put her through, but the regret was there. Scabior's eyes were suffocating her and so she tore her gaze away.

"It would be easier to hate you," she said, drawing another deep breath and feeling her arms relax a little more. Scabior noticed the little frown line near her mouth.

"I don't want you to hate me," he said, reaching up to brush the wild hair away from her face. There was a time when he liked it, but this Olive – the one who blushed and looked away – this was the Olive he wanted.

"I want to hate you," she said bitterly. "You've done terrible things."

"So have you," he countered, brushing his fingers through her curls. Olive sighed, her eyes sliding shut.

"I don't want to be a forestwife," she repeated. Scabior leaned down and pressed his lips to the place where her brow tucked.

"You aren't," he promised her, pulling away to look at her face. Olive's wide eyes were open now and she'd found a piece of his hair, rolling it between her fingers.

"As long as you're happy, it won't be so bad, right?" she asked, looking back up at him. Scabior found a vulnerability in her eyes that he hadn't seen before, such a vulnerability that it made the darkness in him grow and lodge a knot in his throat. Olive was tough, but she was a girl who just wanted everything to be okay. If she ever looked at anyone else like she was looking at him, he would kill them both. Everyone else could have the hard Olive, but he was the only one who got to have the moments of uncertainty between. Scabior never answered her. Instead he closed the distance and pressed his lips to the corner of her mouth.

The jerks and jitters had vanished, replaced by the rampant beating of her heart. When he pulled back a fraction of an inch, he still found that vulnerability reflecting in her green eyes. Something else was clouded there, too. Confusion and desire mixed into one. But, the dissection of her expression was all but forgotten when her tongue flitted across her bottom lip.

Scabior claimed her mouth again, very gently, as if she were some porcelain doll. Their eyes were still open, measuring each other, before he pulled away once more. Not far, though. When he spoke, his lips skirted across hers.

"Is this how forestwives are treated, sweet'art?" he asked, gravel in his voice. Olive averted her eyes, focusing on the lock of his hair she still had wrapped around her fingers.

"No," she admitted, brow tucking again.

"And is this worse than bein' a forestwife?" he asked, her remark obviously having cut him earlier.

"That's not what I meant, Scabior," she said, still refusing to look at him.

"You're Scabior now, too," he said, slight amusement in his tone.

"It sounds awful, doesn't it?" she said, abandoning the piece of hair for the discolored chunk she'd always favored. "Olive _Scabior._ Doesn't go together at all."

Scabior, well – _Dreagan –_ pulled her hand away from his hair and pressed his mouth to her palm. "I think it sounds lovely," he said, then nudged the bottom of her chin to signal her to look at him.

Olive lifted her eyes back to his.

"You didn't answer my question," he prodded.

"No," she said, chewing the inside of her lip. "It's not worse than being a forestwife."

"Don't do that," he said, rubbing her bottom lip out of her teeth. "You'll drive me mad."

"You're already mad," she said, eyes never once leaving his.

"Maybe," he said, then lowered his mouth to hers once again. There was no pulling away this time. When Olive realized this, she relaxed under him and allowed her eyes to slide shut. The kiss was not chaste for long. It was only a short matter of time before his tongue darted across her bottom lip as hers had earlier. It sent a chill down her spine that she didn't dislike and she opened her mouth to allow him access.

There was always something new between them. Sometimes an expression, sometimes an emotion or drive. This was new, too. He was being gentle with her, slow and deliberate. As much as she loathed herself for enjoying it, she _did_ enjoy it. His mouth was hot and overpowered her, making her think to herself several times that she wouldn't mind spending an eternity snogging him. And just when she thought that maybe it _would_ go on forever, that they would just keep at it until they passed out from lack of oxygen, Scabior pulled back. He admired her flush face, his eyes roving over her swollen lips. A free hand slid up her waist to her chest, his thumb rubbing once over her nipple through the fabric.

Another sigh left Olive, who watched him with lidded eyes. She felt her nipple pucker and tighten, now aching as it rubbed against the fabric of her shirt.

Scabior watched as the thin shirt revealed her arousal, then ran a hand over the other, giving her nipple there a rub and tweak. It tightened and pressed through the material, too, much like he was experiencing in his trousers.

"We have to be up early tomorrow," he said, pulling farther away, though he had no intention of stopping. He only wanted to see where he stood at that moment with the ever-changing Olive.

"Don't," she said sharply, catching him at the elbow and pulling him toward her. A deep satisfaction settled in his chest and he couldn't help the grin that tugged at his face. It was the first time she'd ever reached out for him, the first time she ever pulled him closer. Scabior eyed her tousled hair and flushed complexion as he leaned close and captured her mouth again. He kept kissing her as he sat her up and peeled the shirt over her head, her wild hair draping over bare shoulders. As soon as the shirt was on the floor he was kissing her again, one hand tangling in her curls as they fell back into the bed.

Merlin, it felt amazing to let go of everything, to not have to think. It made her feel strong again, her tongue proving equal to his. This was the Scabior that got her in trouble – the boyish Scabior she could perfectly see charming his way under the skirts at Hogwarts with one smile. The cruel Scabior from that morning, the Scabior she'd met first, was so far out of her mind it was as if he never existed. Some part of her knew she was being stupid, just like all those silly girls at Hogwarts who all fell for charmers and cried when they gave them what they wanted and were ignored afterward. She knew this wasn't forever, or even for the rest of the day, but it was for now and that's all she needed.

Scabior's thumb found her nipple again, rubbing over it in slow and deliberate circles. The tension in her body grew and she pressed her thighs together. When he began to roll and tug at it, heat exploded between her legs and a muffled whine flooded from her mouth to his. Olive felt him grin and pull away, assessing her with his dark eyes.

Was this the part when his cruelty showed through? Was he going to laugh at her for being so stupid? The longer he stared at her, the more uncertain she felt, chewing on the inside of her lip again.

"I told you not to do that," he said, trying to rub her lip free again. Not wanting to lose his playfulness and slip into the _other_ Scabior, she bit down on more of her lip and shot him a look, arching a brow.

Scabior's eyebrows went sky high before he let out a huff of a laugh. "Cheeky girl," he said, successfully freeing her lip and placing a small kiss there. When he pulled away, he just looked at her, drinking in every curve of her face. Olive felt embarrassed – not only at the attention, but at the softness he was displaying.

' _Lies,'_ a voice was screaming inside her head. _'It's all a trick.'_

But Scabior's fingers found their way to her hair and all reason was lost when she leaned her head into his palm.

"My stubborn, confusing wife," he said, admiring her. His thumb traced over the remnants of her black eye. Olive winced under the pressure, but didn't pull away. Instead she met his eyes.

"My psycho, controlling husband," she said. Scabior hummed in reply, busy with brushing the hair away from the other side of her face. Sudden uncertainty clawed at her, a new and unspoken question on her mind. Olive opened her mouth, thought better of it, and closed it again. Silence rested between them.

"You'd better say what you were going to say or I'll go mad wondering," he said, fingers running over her split lip. It was almost as if he was taking inventory of each mark he'd put on her. Sure enough, his fingers traced down to her Splinch wound next.

Olive debated, forgot to breathe, then gave a small huff and shook her head. All she wanted was to get lost in the distraction of Scabior's fingers.

"You should tell me when somethin' is on your mind," he said, brow tucking. And Merlin, she knew better, she really did, but her cheeks reddened at the warmth in his tone.

"Did you only do it to be cruel?" she asked, words spilling before she could stop herself a second time. Olive froze under his hand, afraid she'd ruined the moment and now he'd lash out. But part of her was relieved to have it out in the open. She needed to know where she stood in this marriage, not only for her own morbid curiosity, but for the safety of her and her child. That morning she was sure it was pure cruelty, but now…now he was acting like _this._ And it confused her. Olive just needed to know, then she could act accordingly.

Scabior grew still and the lack of movement made her tighten up, awaiting the impact of either fist or venomous words.

"Olive, look at me."

She squeezed her eyes shut for a moment to prepare, then clenched her fists and made eye contact with him. It was…not what she expected. Scabior's expression was soft, the chocolate color of his eyes catching the lantern light in a way she'd never seen before. It made her heart pound and heat raise to her face.

"I want you all to myself," he said. For a moment he was quiet, then continued, "We're the best at our job and a lot of the other Snatchers hate us for it. What's to stop them from takin' you?"

Scabior let those words settle over her before going on.

"It's not goin' to stop them from takin' you away," he said. "Or keep them from treatin' you like a forestwife. But, no one else is goin' to have more rights to you than I do. If you had some other scum Snatcher's last name, I'd end up back in Azkaban." The intensity of his words had her holding breath, heart hammering hard in her throat. "If someone took you again, I -," he paused, dipping his head into the curve of her neck where she couldn't see his expression. When he laughed, the sound was dark and hollow, a huff of hot air running over her neck. It sounded crazed. "- would _slaughter_ every person in my way until I found you."

They were both still, Scabior still at the nape of her neck and Olive frozen. When she swallowed, the sound seemed amplified against the silence.

"Thank you," she said.

Scabior's head shot up, a mixture of both hope and uncertainty on his face. It was the first time she'd seen him wear such an expression and it nearly shattered her to a million pieces.

"I would be humiliated if I went through all this with you only to have some stranger take my name away," she said. "You're the only one allowed to take anything from me."

Olive felt like she owed him that much after his confession. And it wasn't a lie. At least the two of them had built up some amount of fucked up rapport with each other. It would be embarrassing and weak to have someone else swoop in at this point, someone she'd probably never even met let alone gone head-to-head with. No, if she was going to have anything taken from her, it was going to be from someone who worked for it.

At her words, his eyes grew dark again and for some reason she felt nervous, like maybe having sex with him now meant something more. When she realized they would be consummating their marriage, her stomach nearly flipped right out of her body.

"Olive," he said in a low voice, predatory gleam in his eye. "Your lip. You're biting it again."

She hadn't even realized. But, aching to put the serious moment behind them and return to their earlier playful banter, she once again secured her lip between her teeth. Scabior's dark look only grew, as did the smirk on his face.

"I'll make you let go of that lip," he said, smug tone powering over his words. Olive scoffed the best she could and arched an eyebrow, keeping her lip in place. The heat between her thighs had not quite dulled from before and now grew at his words. "Put your hands under your back," he said, tone slipping from playful to commanding. It was too near the cruel Scabior for her to risk giving him a hard time and so she slid her hands under the small of her back, securing them with her own weight.

"I'll be disappointed if you move your hands," he added. Olive kept her bottom lip tucked between her teeth and nodded, blush creeping over her face.

The pain surprised her, but she managed to keep her lip secure despite the muffled whine she gave. Scabior squeezed her nipple tight, rolling it slowly between his thumb and forefinger. When that didn't get her to fold, he began doing the same to the other. While Olive didn't give in, the higher pitched squeak she let escape gave him the resolve to continue. He freed one of his hands and took her nipple in his mouth, biting and nipping while his other hand continued its assault.

Olive chewed on her lip, trying to regain control of herself and failing miserably. When he bit down on her and pulled his face away to meet her eyes, pulling her nipple taut between his teeth, she thought she might explode on the spot. A strangled sounding moan fled her throat and he smirked before returning to the work at hand. She had a sudden feeling of helplessness when she couldn't reach out for his hair, wanting to just touch him, to be involved in this act.

Scabior's free hand slid down the bump of her stomach and found the place between her thighs. What he found there made him release his mouth and give her a smug look. "You're already wet," he said, his eyes holding her captive. "And I haven't even put a mark on you yet."

_Yet._

Tense anticipation coiled deep inside her. Words that would have once angered or frightened her now fanned the heat pooling between her legs.

"Told you that you 'aven't been Olive Westin in a long time," he said, giving her a triumphant smirk before lowering his mouth to her nipple once more. The familiar feeling of defeat began to wash over her, but he slid his fingers inside her and all else was quickly forgotten.

For several minutes, all that was to be heard was Olive's labored panting and occasional whine. The aching inside her was growing too large to handle. Each stroke of his fingers or nip of his teeth made the coil of tension within her tighten. Though it was beginning to become unbearable, Olive kept her lip tucked tight, not giving in.

"Stubborn little kitten," he said, finally pulling away. Though it didn't seem possible, the tension inside only grew when he removed his fingers.

Now it was a matter of pride. Only one thing was going to make the longing go away and she didn't want to ask for it.

Scabior watched her face carefully, grinning at the disappointment evident now that she wasn't being touched. He sat back on his knees and pulled his shirt over his head, then drank in the sight before him. Olive was flushed all over and breathless, lip tucked away in her stubborn display, still laying on her hands.

Wickedness gleamed in his eyes as he moved himself between her legs, pressing his lips to the inside of her knee. Scabior's teeth nipped the soft skin and he trailed his lips a few inches closer to her core. Olive froze then, realizing what he was doing, and tried to close her legs. Scabior had anticipated the move and caught them, keeping them pried open the best he could.

"Would it embarrass you?" he asked, then pulled his mouth away from the inside of her thigh to get a look at her face. Olive's eyes were wide in alert, her cheeks more red than before. She met his eyes for a fraction of a second before looking away and giving a small nod. Scabior smirked and bent to nip at some skin a few inches closer, causing Olive to tense again. "I like embarrassing you," he said, looking back up to her once more. "But you're the one holding your own arms back from pushing me away."

The smirk on his face made her feel small and weak. Scabior was right, after all. She could easily pull her hands out from under her and push him away. But, he'd said he would be disappointed if she moved her arms. And she didn't want that, did she? If he was disappointed, then the _other_ Scabior would come out. The _other_ Scabior wasn't a happy Scabior.

"You're not moving your hands," he noted, arrogance crossing his features. Olive shook her head and he grinned – that boyish grin that made her ears fill with the sound of her own heart. "Smart girl."

Olive's chest flooded with pride. She could do this – she could pass any test her threw her way. Scabior seemed to read her mind and rose to the opportunity. With that charming grin in place, he pushed her legs far apart until they dug into the mattress and her muscles began to ache and cramp.

"Hold them there," he ordered, then pulled away. Without the pressure of his hands, it was hard to keep her legs in place, but she managed to do it. The struggle read on her face like a book. Scabior admired the tuck in her brow and pained eyes. "This is fun," he said darkly, removing himself from between her legs and taking a seat at her side. "The only thing that would put me in a better mood is if you'd stop chewin' your lip off." Olive studied him for a moment, uncertainty etched in her eyes. "C'mon, sweet'art, you don't want me to get cross, do you? Do it for me."

Olive let her lip slide free, despite the deflated feeling it gave her. As soon as her lip was in the clear, she clenched her teeth, trying to steady her now trembling legs. Even though biting her lip did absolutely nothing to cover her up, she suddenly felt naked, exposed, and vulnerable. "Good girl," he muttered, leaning down to press his lips against hers before making his way back between her legs. His words sent that shudder down her spine, sating her for giving in to him.

"Will you trust me?" he asked, giving her that smile. Merlin's fucking beard, that smile. Any other day she would have laughed at his question, but she'd follow him off a cliff if he kept smiling at her like that. It was nearly trancelike when she nodded in agreement.

Scabior's smile grew to the point where it bordered on malicious, eyes greedy and possessive, before leaning down to capture her sex with his mouth.

Olive gasped at the warm, foreign sensation. When his tongue began to lap back and forth, her legs started to tremble so bad that Scabior pulled away and sternly reminded her to hold the position he'd left her in.

It was heaven when his mouth returned. Olive had never before experienced the feeling of melting, but she was sure this was the closest she'd ever come. It was like her whole body was liquid, sinking farther and heavier into the bed as her body relaxed. Even her legs grew comfortable and stopped aching, growing heavy enough to stay in place without the effort. Olive's head rolled back, each lap of his tongue causing a new moan to vibrate along her throat. When he began sucking on her most sensitive spot, her moans grew loud and labored.

"Scabior, _please,_ " she begged, stopping only to whine out again. Scabior stalled, pausing to kiss the inside of her thigh.

"What kind of wife calls her husband by 'is last name?" he asked, teasing and sucking the sensitive flesh.

" _Dreagan,"_ she said, breathless and demanding.

He tore himself away from her thighs and towered over her, satisfaction etched on his face.

"What?" he asked. He put his hands on either side of her swollen stomach and looked every bit of a wild animal prepared to pounce. He kept climbing forward on top of her, finally coming face-to-face, his stomach resting on the swell of hers.

Olive's chest was heaving, reaching up and pressing against his with each breath. "I need you," she said, feeling both safe and suffocated with his face hovering so close to hers.

In the light of the lantern, she saw his face change at her words. For a split second there was something there – she couldn't quite put a finger on it – but then it was masked with something hard and unyielding. He crawled back the way he came and stood at the end of the bed, unbuttoning his trousers while he basked in the image of Olive. Her hands were still pinned under her, her legs spread open in the most graphic fashion.

"Say it again," he demanded, kneeling onto the bed and guiding his cock into her. Olive moaned out at the slow intrusion, all reason gone. There was nothing else in the world besides him.

"I need you," she said, words spilling from her mouth, turning into a whine as he pumped into her again.

"Look at me," he said and she obliged, watching him watch her. Each time he drew back and thrust into her, Olive fought the urge to dig her head into the bed and close her eyes. It was torture looking at him, but it was what he wanted. And right then she would give him whatever he wanted to make him keep going.

Dreagan began to lose his collected mask, his breathing growing ragged, his eyes wild. "You look fuckin' beautiful like this," he said between thrusts, caught up in a mixture of lust, triumph, and pride in Olive for still holding the position. When her lips curled up at the corners, it made her all the more beautiful.

"You look fucking crazy," she said, then cried out when he slammed into a sweet spot. He smiled at her words and the image stunned her, sending her into such a daze that she held her breath and then gasped for air when it passed.

"Don't ever look at someone else like that," he said, hitting the sweet spot again and nearly sending her into delirium.

"I won't," she whined, but that wasn't enough for him.

"Promise me," he demanded, each thrust growing in intensity.

"I promise," she cried, moaning out when he slammed into the spot again. "Only you."

That was all the fuel he needed. Within the minute he had her screaming, then trembling in the aftershock while he finished inside her. She'd screamed out with no reservations – screamed out for him. Screamed out for _Dreagan._

For a few minutes they both lay still, stunned and exhausted. Olive began to feel embarrassed of the things she'd said, but Dreagan crawled up next to her, took her mouth with his, and all else was forgotten. She remembered snogging for what felt like hours and then dozing off with her head tucked close to his chest, his arms holding her tight against him.

When she woke, he was gone. Olive knew before she even opened her eyes that something was wrong.


	24. Chapter 24

_EDITED: 08/18/2015_

Olive was beginning to stir and knew instinctively that she was alone in the bed. After several minutes waking from sleep, she reached out with closed eyes to find her instinct correct. The bed was empty aside from her and this tugged her fully from slumber, forcing her to peek open her eyes.

Outside it must have been late morning. Sun shone through the canvas, giving the dark tent enough gentle light to see. Scabior was nowhere in the bedroom. Well, _Dreagan._ That would take some getting used to. Olive stood and picked up her husband's shirt, the one that had been flung from her the evening before, and slid it over her head. For a moment, in a sleepy daze, she stared at the bed and was flooded with memories of the previous night. A great flush crept over her cheeks and she turned from the room, not wanting to remember the embarrassing things she'd said in the heat of the moment.

The kitchen and bathroom were empty, as well. Olive trained her hearing to outside the tent, but only heard small animals scurrying about and moving water at a greater distance. No Dreagan.

Something felt wrong. In instinct, Olive brought her hand to rest of the swell of her stomach. Then something caught her eye, a ripped piece of parchment laying atop the kitchen table. She walked to it, then plucked it up between her thin fingers. Scrawled in his distinctive handwriting read: _If the wards fall, run._

Olive's stomach twisted terribly and she had to sit for the roll of nausea to pass. Perhaps it was the worry for him, but she told herself it was the pregnancy making her feel ill.

 _If the wards fall?_ Dreagan was a master at setting wards. If they fell, there were only two possible reasons. He either took them down on his own or he was dead.

At the thought, the room seemed to ice over. Olive eyed the tent flap. Barefoot, she stood, and made her way from the tent. It was difficult to tell from a distance, so she walked directly behind the tent, where she knew the ward ended just beyond a rotten tree trunk. Once she approached, she reached out her fingers and thrust them into the seemingly empty air, but saw the ripple it caused on the ward and felt the strange sensation of her fingers being sucked into a vacuum.

Good. Things were still okay. As Olive made her way back into the tent, she wondered what on earth was going on. Why had he left? Hadn't he said just the evening before that they would be moving camp first thing in the morning? She eyed the sky, sun shining brightly from above. An hour or so before noon, if she had to guess. What had happened that their plans changed?

Picking at her nails, Olive sat back at the table and tried to think of any possibilities. Warning her that the wards may fall was subtly warning her that he may die. But, _why?_

Nearly an hour later, the tremors began and the metallic taste crossed her tongue. Fighting it off was only making things worse and, as if on cue, she heard footsteps in the distance. Olive focused on her breathing, trying to return her shaking eyesight to normal. Footsteps. They could only be good or bad. She clutched her wand in a still-trembling hand and stood, making an exit from the tent. No one in sight. Either way, she needed the distraction – it helped the metallic taste go away.

Multiple voices. A woman. Four children, all girls. They were coming from the west, passing through. The woman kept urging the children to be quiet. Olive waited, tense in anticipation. Perhaps a quarter hour passed before they came into view while she watched, tucked away behind the ward. The oldest of the girls was maybe ten – close to Hogwarts age, but without her own wand. There were twins, around six or seven, and the youngest looked to be about five. They all had the woman's auburn hair.

"Mummy, I'm hungry," said the youngest. They were closer now and Olive could see how ragged and worn they looked. Not out for a stroll – they had been in the wilderness for a long time. Their hair was riddled with split ends and their little faces seemed dirty. Mud under their fingernails. They passed so close that Olive could have reached out and snatched them one by one as they walked by.

"Keep looking," the mother said, trying to cover the defeat and agony in her eyes as she spun to look at her children. "Just like a game, remember? Let's see who can find the most animals for mummy to try and capture."

Olive refused to give in to the tug at her heart. This was her job – this is what she did for a living and there was no use feeling bad about it. When the last little girl passed, Olive stepped quietly from the ward, feeling that odd pressure pass over her body before she was out on the other side. Barefoot, she made only the slightest noise against the brush and knew only her ears were skilled enough to hear. The group all had their backs to Olive, heading east. In the end, it wasn't even a challenge. Olive had disarmed once she got a clear shot of the mother and then, in the blink of an eye, had them all bound together and silenced.

She knew she had to look mad. Since living on the land, Olive's hair had grown long and wild. She couldn't even remember what marks she had on her at current, as they were always evolving, but she knew she had to be marred in bruises and scars. There she stood before the group with no trousers, not even any undergarments, with no shoes and belly swollen in pregnancy.

Olive was just picking up the woman's wand when she heard the sharp crack behind her. She spun, but saw nothing and knew he'd returned inside the wards. With ears as skilled as hers, he turned to the scene and stepped out from hiding. When the bound mother saw the red band around his arm, her struggling grew frantic in attempt to release herself and her daughters.

"Good," he said. "You've got a head start. Go put your trousers and boots on, we're gonna 'ave a long day." There were dark rings under his eyes. Where he normally carried a hard expression, even when not being cruel, he now looked agitated and worried. _"Now, Olive,"_ he demanded and she nodded, then quickly slipped inside the wards and into the tent.

What was that all about? Olive figured she would find out in due time. Scrambling in the dim light of the bedroom, she found appropriate clothing and changed, then felt under the bed for her boots. Once she was laced up, she went back outside to find that Dreagan had secured the group of ladies and left them outside the wards, busying himself with collecting the cauldron which hung over the fire pit.

"Break down the tent," he told her and she did, curious as to why he seemed so on edge, but not daring voice her concern. Once they were done and had everything packed neatly, Dreagan released the wards and they went to their captives.

The woman was mouthing something, but neither of the Snatchers paid her any attention. "Hold on," he told Olive and she took his arm, watching as he reached to grab ahold of the woman. Then they were spinning, being sucked away to their new location. When they landed, he collapsed on the ground, dazed look in his eyes.

"You alright?" she asked, trying to stand, but her swollen stomach was offering her difficulty. Dreagan nodded and shook the dazed expression from his face. There was no need to ask what happened – apparating that many people at once was sure to put a drain on your magical energy. But, he'd done it without managing to Splinch a single one, which was rather impressive.

"Set up camp," he said in a gruff voice, not looking at her. "I'll take 'em in and tag 'em. Stay here and I'll be back, but be quick about gettin' the tent up."

Then he was gone without any explanation. Confused and curious, Olive set up the tent as quickly as possible and had a new fire pit started, the first crackle of limbs sounding just as he got back.

"Where are we?" she said, turning to look at him. Again, he was avoiding looking her direction.

"Norway," he said, looking anywhere but her, instead surveying the surrounding land. "Their magical government fell to the Dark Lord last night and now we can hunt here. Tons of mudbloods an' halfies took off for here since Norway refused to expedite refuges. It's a hotbed of runaways."

Olive turned and looked over the same land he was surveying, but saw no people. "Seems like there are a lot of refuges," she said, dry note in her tone. All that met her eyes were trees upon trees.

" _Listen,"_ he said, irritation clear in his voice. Olive trained her hearing, growing still in concentration. Directly ahead of them, not too far, there were two travelers. To their left, at a great distance, Olive could her a group of people laughing. And behind them, even farther, she heard the faint footsteps of three or four people. "See?" he said. "We've got to tag thirty today."

" _Thirty?"_ she said, turning to him with wide eyes. "Have you gone mad? We only did thirty once and that was the inn!"

Olive regretted bringing up the inn. For the first time that morning, he looked at her, but there was great darkness behind his eyes. _"Thirty,"_ he said. For a fleeting moment, she saw a look of desperation hidden in his look. "We're going to find thirty and then we're taking a damn holiday."

The way he spoke gave her the impression that someone else had ordered them to capture thirty people and that he was not too happy about it. Perhaps the Ministry had better organized the Snatchers now, so they weren't just running about at their fancy.

"Alright," she said, not even attempting to disguise the sound of dismay in her voice. Thirty. Olive looked at the sun and guessed it around one or two in the afternoon. Ministry closed at eight. "Should we split up, then?"

Dreagan was quiet for a long moment in thought, then nodded. "It's the only way we're going to be able to do it," he said, not happy at all that Olive would be working alone. "No harm to any of them, you hear me? For all we know, they could have purebloods with them. Might be married an' running together or something. Just tie 'em up, disarm 'em, and bring 'em back here, got it?"

Olive nodded and the two split up, him headed for the group of three or four behind them and her heading straight ahead for the two travelers. The job hardly presented difficulty to either one anymore. Not even a half hour had passed before they met back at camp with their six new captives.

"That'll be eleven," he said. The trip to the Ministry was quick and, as they often did, people turned to look at the two of them levitating their captives in tow. Olive and Dreagan were well-known in the Snatching community and that notoriety had begun to leak into the knowledge of everyday people.

They earned their fees, Dreagan tucking them away in a coin pouch he'd pulled from his deep pockets. After that, they returned to camp and listened, then went on their own way again.

Trip after trip was made to the Ministry as the day wore on. Each time, they looked a little more worn. Olive was sporting a split lip from some old man head-butting her in the face and Dreagan had dried blood on the sleeve of his shirt. No one, not even Olive, was sure if it was his blood or not.

It was exhausting. "Isn't twenty enough?" she complained at one point, but he threw her a dark look and left her to go track some sounds nearby.

Their last trip was near closing time. Inside, witches and wizards were flitting this way and that, trying to get the last of their paperwork in before heading home. Most of them stopped and gawked at the two dragging in yet another batch of refuges. "They're back again," one woman whispered, looking at Dreagan with ill-disguised lust. "Another batch?" a man asked the witch next to him, looking impressed.

"Scabior and Scabior!" rang a sickly sweet voice and the two turned, exhausted looks on their faces, to find Dolores Umbridge clacking after them. A blonde woman with horn-rimmed glasses was right on her heels, a piece of parchment and quill in hand. Once Umbridge caught up, she gave them a practiced smile. "I was hoping you'd be back in," she said to the two of them, then turned to the blonde woman. "These are two of the Ministry's top Snatchers, Dreagan and Olive Scabior. Recently wed," she said with distaste, giving Olive a pointed look and letting her eyes fall with disapproval to the swell of her stomach before returning to the woman. A photographer huffed up behind the two women, out of breath.

Olive looked to Dreagan, eyebrow arched in confusion. He merely shrugged, but she noted the look of relief he seemed to have. Though their latest captives were still floating in the background, they would close out the day with thirty exactly.

"Our Snatchers work around the clock," Umbridge told the woman. "They ensure the capture of fugitives and return them to justice. The public doesn't realize how many fugitives have fled or how dangerous they are. The Snatchers are the unsung heroes, keeping us protected from these dangerous individuals."

Oh, brother. The blonde woman was scribbling like mad on the parchment and it became obvious this was some sort of interview, probably for the Prophet. The Ministry could be pushing the Snatchers into the spotlight, instilling fear in the mudbloods and halfies.

"Todd, get a picture of them. Get the fugitives in the background," the blonde woman said, pointing toward Olive with her quill. Umbridge moved closer to Olive and Dreagan, who both crossed arms over their chests and stood with bored looks, wishing they would just hurry the hell up. The light flashed and Umbridge was back near the woman, trying to disguise the fact that she was peeking at the parchment to make sure everything was written how she liked.

"How many fugitives have you brought in overall?" the blonde woman asked Dreagan. He shrugged, heaving a heavy sigh.

"I've no idea," he said. "Don't keep track of 'em like that."

The woman's mouth pursed, then she asked, "Well, what about today?"

She picked a hell of a day to ask that question. "Thirty," he answered, arms still crossed.

Umbridge turned and looked at them, eyes wide. _"Thirty?"_ she asked, abandoning her normally poised tone. "You two brought in thirty _just today?"_

Olive nodded in reply, then looked at the large clock hanging in the atrium. They had less than ten minutes. Dreagan followed her eyes and then looked back to the group. "We've got to tag these… _fugitives,"_ he said, using their term.

Umbridge waved them off and then they were gone, back to people staring and gawking. The captives were processed and then the two of them were back at their tent with rather heavy pockets filled with new money.

Not a moment after they landed in the dark forest, Dreagan had her backed into a tree. His fingers held her chin and he kissed her fiercely, not allowing her time to ask questions or even breathe. The confusion evident in her tucked brow slowly faded, gone completely by the time she reached up and grasped the front of his shirt in her fists. One thing led to another and any questions Olive had were soon forgotten, chased away by the heat of his hands and mouth.

That night, among their scattered bedsheets, he told her quietly they were going to relax and sleep the next day, then go somewhere nice for a few days. It was a welcome thought after the trying day they'd had. It was after she heard his soft breathing that she remembered her questions. Where had he gone that morning? Why thirty people? What was going on that had him so on edge? Then new questions flitted across her mind – had he only begun snogging her to keep her from asking the first few questions? Was he distracting her? _Why?_

Their hopes for a holiday did not exactly pan out as they wished.

The next evening, while eating at the pub before taking off, Olive spied a man looking at her from the bar. Dreagan's back was to him, but her eyes darted back and forth between the two, time and time again. She wasn't sure until the man at the bar smirked at her and she saw the familiar cruelty in his eyes. The resemblance between the man and Dreagan was too much to ignore.

In the end, it was Dreagan's brother that messed up their holiday plans, starting from the moment he stood from the bar and made his way over to them.


	25. Chapter 25

_AN 10/04/15: Within the story, the next few days are going to have a lot going on. I know you're used to lengthier chapters, but I've thought it over and think the best way to proceed is with shorter chapters until we get over this bump of conflict. There's just going to be a lot of characters and locations involved and I was afraid of it becoming too much or too choppy for single chapters. - DC_

Olive found herself quite unable to tear her eyes from the man approaching their table. That smirk he'd given her from the bar reminded her of her husband's cruelty and caused a shiver to run up her spine. Dreagan was saying something to her, but it went unheard. It was the strangest thing, like she couldn't look away from the approaching man if she tried. Olive caught the scent of the stranger, similar to Dreagan's, but _different._ It didn't have as strong a hold over her as Oliver's had, but she would be lying to say it didn't make her press her thighs together under the table.

He had to be some relation to Dreagan. If he wasn't, the resemblance bordered on eerie. The two shared the same straight nose and dark eyes. Both had that dark, coarse hair that trailed past their shoulders, though the stranger's was as straight as could be, not a single wave or kink as her husband's had. The man was every bit as tall as Dreagan, perhaps slightly taller, and stood with an air of pride – he was well-manicured, his head held high, his shoulders square in a rare display of impeccable posture.

Dreagan repeated himself and she saw him, from the corner of her eye, look up to see why she was silent. When the strange man saw this, saw her inability to look away, he smirked and offered her a wink. He'd drawn close then and Dreagan, scowling at the blush that crept up Olive's neck, turned to see what she could possibly be looking at.

"Baby brother," the strange man said, tearing his eyes away from Olive to look at her husband. She took the moment to compare the two, seeing minute differences, but not enough to deny blood-ties. Then she recalled Dreagan saying his strip of discolored hair was due to his brother throwing an ashtray at him. Was this the brother? Or was there another?

Dreagan looked his brother over and then turned away in a lazy fashion. "Bastian," he said, almost dismissively. "What do you want?" Instead of turning to acknowledge his brother, Dreagan was glaring at Olive, for what she assumed was the blush which had crept up her neck. She fidgeted in the seat and looked down at her stew. It wasn't as though she was blushing because she found the man attractive – which she did. It was that he'd caught her staring and offered a wink as Dreagan sat oblivious, as if the two shared some secret.

"We have problems," Bastian said in a serious tone, pulling out the chair between the two and taking a seat. When he sat, his leg brushed against Olive's and she pulled her legs tighter under her chair. She watched the man's mouth quiver, as if he were trying not to smile.

"If it's your problem, it's not my problem," Dreagan said sourly, not bothering to look up at either of them. Instead he took a long drink, eyes glued on his sandwich.

Bastian arched an eyebrow and Olive noted the tension in his jaw, prompting her to shy away a few inches. Dreagan's jaw grew tight when he was cross with her, but his face never grew red. The similarities were frightening. "Greyback took Mira," he said, voice even in the most frightening way. Chill bumps ran across Olive's arms at the unexpected mention of the werewolf.

Dreagan grew still for a moment, then huffed some sort of dark half-laugh and shook his head. "Not my problem," he repeated, taking another long drink. His eyes met his wife's for a split second and she saw some tense emotion before his gaze darted toward Bastian.

"Actually," his brother said. "It's all your fault and you know it. Mum won't stop fuckin' squawking over Mira, she's drivin' me insane. Gaspar is furious and preaching his Order bullshit. I'm not leavin' your side until you fix this mess."

Olive felt overwhelmed, not sure who all these people were he was speaking about. What was going on that was Dreagan's fault? Did this have to do with him being on edge the day before? Or the thirty people they had to capture? Curiosity burned inside her.

"Well, sorry to tell you," Dreagan said, matching his brother's gaze with an equally tense jaw, "Olive and I were just leaving on holiday after dinner."

Bastian took a moment to look his younger brother over, then offered a mocking laugh. His eyes slid to Olive and he appraised her. "You sure do take care of this one," he said, a note of darkness in his tone. Olive once again found herself unable to look away. He and Dreagan's faces were similar in the most eerie way, but there was a different sort of darkness in his eyes. "That's a first. Something tells me she wouldn't be around if she knew what happened last ti-"

" _Shut it,"_ Dreagan said, eyes bordering on crazed. Olive looked between her husband and brother-in-law, the latter not bothering to take his eyes from her, and didn't like the way her stomach twisted with anxiety.

Instead of answering him, Bastian stuck his hand toward her, hanging in the space between them. Olive debated – what did he mean by _last time?_ She wasn't even sure what questions she had, but she felt perhaps Bastian had some of the answers. Her hand reached out and took his – warm and, unlike her husband's, smooth. The shake on both parts was firm and, once they dropped their hands, they were left with the heated glare of Dreagan.

"I'm sorry," Bastian said, eyes drifting down to her stomach for a moment. The way he said it implied that he wasn't sorry at all and, rather, found her pregnancy amusing. "He's done much worse. You're a pretty girl – at least he didn't mess your face up too bad."

The scenario was growing more uncomfortable by the second and Olive looked to her husband for help. His eyes were livid – primal and possessive – but his expression was otherwise calm. "Tell me what you want and leave," Dreagan said in a rough tone, gripping his cup hard enough that his knuckles were beginning to grow white.

Finally Bastian drew a breath and Olive was free of his gaze. Try as she might, she couldn't help the huff of air that fled her lips. Across the table, Dreagan's expression further tightened. Next to her, a smile twitched on the corner of Bastian's lips. Neither acknowledged her small gasp, though it was apparent they both observed it.

"As I said, brother," Bastian started, leaning back in his chair with rod-like posture, "Greyback has Mira. Mum and Gaspar are driving me mad. Take care of it."

The brothers were locked in a stare down. Olive was resisting the urge to squirm in her seat. The baby also seemed to be feeling the need, as it wriggled inside her. For a moment the brothers were lost – it was the first time she properly felt the baby move and the experience tore her mind from the tense dinner table. She laid a gentle hand on her stomach, as if to sooth the child, and looked back up to the others.

Dreagan tipped his head back and emptied the remnants of his drink. The glass made a loud _clang_ when he sat it back on the table, but he seemed unaware. Olive watched her husband's eyes go faraway, deep in thought. She could see him push his tongue against the inside of his cheek, as if that small action would provide an answer. Finally, he drew a deep breath and, though he still looked unhappy, she noted his jaw looked less tense. With an exhausted look, he rubbed the side of his face with an open palm as if coaxing the words to form. "Not here," he said, shooting his brother a dark look. "And not in front of Olive."

That grated something deep inside her and she snapped her jaw shut, giving him a dirty look. Bastian looked between the two of them and nodded, but an amused smirk played on his lips. "To Mum's, then?" he asked, eyes shining like he was telling a great joke.

"Fine," Dreagan said with a shrug, resigned to just get it all over with and get on with his life.

Bastian's smile widened and Olive grew stiff when he laid his hand on the back of her neck. "Hope you don't mind," he said to his brother. "Just so I know you'll actually show up."

Dreagan opened his mouth to protest, eyes betraying his anger, but not a single word was heard to Olive as she was already spinning away, pushed tight against Bastian and clutching onto him for fear of being Splinched.


	26. Chapter 26

****

Olive didn't even have time to register her surroundings before there was another loud pop and she was being yanked forward.

"Don't play games, Bastian," came the voice that grabbed her and she looked up to see Dreagan. His jaw was tight.

"Oh come now, I had to make sure you'd show up," Bastian argued. "I'm not an idiot, if I hadn't have done it you'd have been long gone by now."

Dreagan's silence only confirmed the fact. Olive looked around and found they were standing in an entryway of some sort. A huge wooden staircase dominated the right side of the room and she looked up to see four or five floors above.

A house. They were in a house. Probably the biggest she'd ever been in – even considering Malfoy Manor. But the wallpaper was peeling, wooden boards were splintered here and there, and – quite honestly – it didn't look fit for habitation. And that was saying something considering she had spent the better part of a year in a tent.

"As I thought," Bastian said with a sigh. "Your room is untouched. Mother never could bear going in there after you ran off. I gave her a sleeping draught before I left, but she knows I went to find you and she'll be expecting you in the morning."

Olive was hardly listening. She couldn't take her eyes from the grime that seemed to cover everything.

Dreagan's hand moved up to the back of her neck. A protective measure she wouldn't argue with, not while surrounded by such dismal walls.

"We'll speak at breakfast," Bastian said. Olive could feel his eyes on her and she looked up to him. He had a peculiar smirk she wasn't sure she was comfortable with. He nodded in farewell as he turned and made his way up the creaking staircase, much to Olive's surprise. It didn't look like it could support much more weight than a feather, let alone a grown man.

For the longest time the two of them just stood in silence, well after Bastian's footsteps had faded. "What is this place?" she finally asked, not bothering to hide the disgust in her voice.

"Where I grew up," he said, his own distaste matching hers. "Until I ran off to stay with my aunt."

At that Olive looked up at him over her shoulder. Dreagan's jaw was tighter than just a few moments ago, but his face oddly void of expression.

"We can just leave?" she suggested, her voice betraying a note of hope.

The hope she felt was diminished when his mouth set in a thin line. "He was already settin' the wards as I got here," he said, lifting his free arm. Blood covered the side of his hand, having rolled down from inside the arm of his jacket. Dreagan turned his arm to reveal part of his jacket torn and frayed, a large patch of skin peeled off beneath. "Not as quick as I should have been," he added.

Dreagan lowered his arm and again the two of them stood still in the entry hall, just looking at the disaster surrounding them.

"So," she said. "We're basically being held hostage in your own home."

His fingers tightened a bit on the back of her neck. "This is _not_ my home," he said darkly, then pushed her forward toward the stairs. "Come on, then," he said.

Out of all the things Olive had been through since Dreagan entered her life, setting one foot on that staircase was without a doubt one of the scariest. At the bottom she hesitated and Dreagan stalled, giving her a funny look.

"Will it…hold both of us?" she asked, apprehensive. It didn't help matters that, now closer to the walls, she could see some sort of small insects crawling along the faded paper.

Dreagan's hand on her neck loosened and she looked up over her shoulder at him. There was a tired smile on his face, the first positive emotion he'd shown since they arrived. "It'll be fine," he assured her.

Olive looked away from him and back to the stairs, her apprehension evident. With a sigh, he dropped his hand from her neck and moved to stand at her side, grabbing her by the elbow.

"C'mon, scaredy cat," he teased, tugging her up on the first step. The wood moaned under their weight and she snatched onto the bannister.

At that he had to laugh and Olive found it a welcome sound.

"Out'ta all the things we've done, Olive, and you're scared of a fuckin' staircase!"

Olive set her jaw and tilted up her chin. "In my defense, it's the dodgiest looking staircase I've ever seen in my life."

With that she took another step, just wanting to get it over with. A few creaking stairs later and they were safely at the top.

As with the entry hall, they stood in silence for a moment and took it all in. Chunks of plaster were missing from the ceiling. In their silence, you could hear some sort of animal – whether rodent or bird – scuffling around inside the walls. Here and there along the floor, boards were splintered or altogether missing.

"Hasn't changed a bit," he said darkly. Olive looked up to see his moments of playful banter were gone. Now Dreagan's face had returned to the grim sight it had been downstairs.

The staircase continued up another two floors, but she was glad their destination was on their current floor. Dreagan, without a word, slid his hand down to hers and led her through the maze of busted floorboards.

At the end of the hall – which seemed to stretch on forever – there was a single door. Dreagan swung it open, the act dramatized by a great deal of dust falling to reveal a narrow staircase. Olive let her eyes follow from the bottom to the top. This set was far better maintained.

As in the entry hall and on the second floor landing, they stood still in silence for a moment. She wondered just how long it had been since he'd last been here and why he was so discontent to be back. Though the dismal state of the place was reason enough, Olive couldn't imagine growing up in such a filthy place.

"Come on," he muttered, leading the way and dragging her behind by the hand. She was glad to note those stairs didn't groan and creak as the others had.

The stairs led up to a small room, almost loft-like, though overlooking nothing. There was a single window, but it had grown too dark to see what it looked out over.

Olive looked around, her face unreadable. "This was your room?" she asked. It was strange seeing that small slice of him. Everything was so _him,_ just younger.

Dreagan only hummed in reply. His expression was just as unreadable as hers.

Olive dropped his hand and crossed the room, looking around at his things. Dreagan started tending the wound on his arm, though his eyes never lingered far from her.

The bed was still rumpled from whenever the last time he'd slept in it. The walls were plain plaster, decorated only by a few photographs and a giant moving poster of some quidditch team. She'd never been into quidditch – she figured it was because she didn't grow up with it. The players in the aging poster wore grey and white robes and were weaving on and off the poster on their brooms. Near the top it read: _Falmouth Falcons._ In smaller print at the bottom it said: _Let us win, but if we cannot win, let us break a few heads._

A small smile perked up the edges of her mouth.

"What?" he asked, voice even. Though there might have been a note of tension. Olive looked over at him. While she inspected the poster, he had only watched her, a bit of spare fabric – maybe an old shirt – pressed against his arm.

"It's just…very you," she said, nudging her head toward the poster. It was only then that Dreagan looked at the poster. He merely hummed in reply, then peeled the fabric away. It already looked to be doing a lot better.

God, he seemed tense. Olive wasn't quite sure she'd ever seen him like that before. It was a mix of nerves and apprehension. She didn't comment on it – the behavior was too odd for comment. Instead she went back to her inspection of the room.

The bed was a double, though there was no frame. Just a box spring and mattress on the floor. From the head of the bed to the wall opposite was a line of books propped against each other.

Dreagan still just watched her as she cocked her head to the side and read the titles. Now, she had never thought him a simple person, he was far too clever and manipulative for that, but Olive was genuinely surprised with the depth and complexity of subjects he'd read up on. A lot of it was advanced dark arts.

"I didn't know you liked to read so much," she noted, not looking at him.

There was a beat of silence. "Don't 'ave time for it anymore," he said. "But I used to read a lot, yeah."

Olive could picture it, moody teenage Dreagan locked away in his room, pouring over books to escape what an awful place he lived in. She'd done the same, though it was the outside world she was hiding from.

The row of books ended at the wall and she took to looking at the photographs along the next stretch. The first she saw seemed to be a family picture. Four teenagers, all dressed in Hogwarts robes, stood around a woman. All five of them looked alike. On the left were two boys who looked exactly the same – their height and build so similar it bordered on eerie. Even their hair was in the same stage of growth, just laying past their ears. Olive knew one of them had to be Dreagan and the other Bastian, though which was which was indecipherable. The older woman was in the middle, her dark eyes unamused. Bastian and Dreagan's expressions matched hers. On the right was a girl who was a spitting image of the woman and next to her was a stockier boy, shorter than the others. They were the only two smiling.

"Notice anything about the picture?" he asked her. Olive realized then he'd closed the gap between them and stood directly behind her.

"Your brothers and sister, I'm guessing," she said. "And mother?"

Dreagan laid a hand on her shoulder and leaned around her, pointing at the picture with his free hand. He pointed first to the boy's tie on the farthest left. Ravenclaw. The next boy – Slytherin. His finger skipped over their mother to the girl – Hufflepuff. The stockier boy – Gryffindor.

"We were the second of only two families in Hogwarts history to have four siblings in four different houses at the same time."

Olive let her eyes trail over the picture again. "Who is who?"

"Me on the far left, then Bastian who you just met. Mum in the middle. Then my sister Mira and brother Gaspar. They're fraternal twins."

Olive's eyes went to the teenage Dreagan…specifically the Ravenclaw tie around his neck. It was not something she expected. Not that it was something she'd ever thought about, but it was both unexpected and fitting.

"What?" he asked, curious with her silence.

"I just never thought about you at Hogwarts," she said. "I suppose I figured you were Slytherin."

Dreagan's hand trailed up to the back of her neck as he'd done at the stairs. "Why?" he asked, tone teasing. "Because I'm the bad guy?"

"Because you act on self-interest," she quickly retorted.

At that he laughed and she turned to look at him. "Fair enough, I s'pose," he said. Olive couldn't help noticing his mood still seemed dark besides the laugh. "To be fair, I was a hat stall between Ravenclaw and Slytherin."

Olive's stomach twisted. She recalled her own humiliation at being a hat stall, stuck between those exact same two houses. "I was a hat stall, too," she admitted.

It was odd. They'd spent so much time together, done horrible and decent things to one another, created a child, and yet they didn't know something as simple as which houses they'd been in. But it was a war – Hogwarts houses seemed silly in comparison. What did it matter in the end?

"Which houses?" he asked, small grin growing across his face. "Let me guess which one you were put in."

"Same two as you," she said. Dreagan didn't seem surprised.

"Slytherin," he said quickly. Olive's eyebrows shot up sky high and she laughed, offering him a small shake of her head. "Ravenclaw? Really?" he asked.

It seemed he was having the same weird moment she had.

"What made you think I was Slytherin?" she asked.

A satisfied smirk pulled across his face. "Because you act on self-interest," he mocked.

Olive couldn't help the grin that crossed her face. "The hat asked me which I preferred," she said. "I didn't know anything about the houses. I told it I wanted the blue table because a few boys at the green table were laughing at me for taking so long."

That earned a chuckle out of Dreagan, who moved his hands to her shoulders and turned her toward the bed.

"Same," he said. "I chose Ravenclaw because I didn't want to be in the same house as Bastian."

At the foot of the bed he dropped his hands from her and pulled out his wand. With a few flicks of his wrist, the sheets and pillows were freshened up.

"So, we're impostor Ravenclaws," she noted.

"We're both pretty smart," he said without looking at her. Instead he sat on the edge of the bed and started unlacing his boots.

It was eerie how similar the two of them really were. It was more eerie thinking that she easily could have sat in the same chair he'd once sat in or used the same desk, all before she knew him.

Olive walked back to the picture and looked over teenage Dreagan again. He looked to be fourteen or fifteen, but already he was quite handsome. Now that she was really looking, she could see a trace of the discolored hair at his crown. When she smiled, the teenage Dreagan smirked at her. God, there was no denying who he was, hadn't changed a bit.

She walked another step or two, eyes glued to the next picture. It was Dreagan again, perhaps a year or two older. Like the previous picture, he looked unamused. The brunette girl next to him, not his sister, was smiling though.

Olive wasn't sure what to think about her stomach twisting at the sight, other than finding it worrisome. What should she care about some girl he'd not even looked happy taking a picture with? But still, the words were out of her mouth before she could stop them. "Who is this?"

She could feel Dreagan looking, but didn't dare turn her head and give away her face.

There was a long silence. "Lysia," he said dismissively and it nearly lodged a knot in her throat. Lysia, the name he sometimes mumbled during his nightmares.

Olive couldn't bring herself to say anything else. Or look at more pictures, for that matter. She stood awkwardly for a moment, unsure what to do with herself, before lifting a foot and trying to unlace her boot. It gave her something to focus on, especially as it was difficult with her swollen stomach. Plus it allowed her to keep her back toward him and buy herself a moment to gather her emotions.

Behind her, she heard Dreagan sigh. She did not turn to look at him.

"It was a long fuckin' time ago, Olive," he said. "I don't want to be here anymore than you do. I never wanted you to see this place, didn't want Bastian making fuckin' eyes at you."

The laces were nearly undone and she lowered her boot, putting the toes of her other foot on the heel and pulling her foot free. Something in his voice bothered her. Irritation, sure, but a small note of panic. It made her forget the photo for a moment and turn toward him, her other boot forgotten.

Dreagan's face made her mouth tug down at the corners. His own mouth was set in a grim line, but his eyes looked miserable.

"No one is making eyes at me, you idiot," she said, teasing. She lifted her other foot and tried to unlace the boot. Much like the first, she got it loose enough to pry her foot out.

In all that time, Dreagan said nothing. He just looked at the wall blankly.

"Hey," she said. His eyes darted up to hers. "It's fine. We'll do what we have to do and leave, alright?"

Still he didn't answer and she frowned.

Olive's eyes darted to the picture of him and Lysia once more before she turned away. That was years ago, enough of an excuse to help her push the thought away. Besides, since the bathtub incident it had been Olive's name he mumbled as he tossed and turned.

_Good._

Her fingers went to her neck and she unfastened the top few buttons of her shirt before turning toward him. Dreagan still stared at the wall, lost in thought. It wasn't until she was sliding the shirt off her arms that he finally looked at her, standing before him bare from the waist up. Olive's pregnant belly stuck out over her trousers.

"What're you doin'?" he asked, the ghost of a smile perking his lips up.

Olive unsnapped the button on her trousers and they fell down to her knees. She stepped out of them before answering. What undergarments she had before were either lost or destroyed. Now she stood stark naked before him with nothing save her socks.

"You're not happy," she said simply.

Dreagan's eyes roamed her body. "No, I'm not," he said.

"Then let me make you feel better."

That was not something he was going to protest, nor was it a request. The photo of Lysia pushed Olive to secure her place. Not that she would admit that to even herself.

Thoughts of her reasoning were pushed aside just as quickly as thoughts of the photograph. There was no room for doubt, not when her bare knees stepped to fit between his – not when her fingers worked to unfasten the buttons at his collar.


	27. Chapter 27

A chill stole over Olive and she tried to scoot closer to Dreagan, only to find nothing. Without looking, she felt blindly with her arm across the bed and still only met with cool sheets. She peeked open a tired eye to find she was quite alone.

The light coming through the small window to Dreagan’s room signaled that it was mid-morning. A little twist went through her stomach. Where had he gone? Last night once she’d done her job making him happy, he’d seemed content to lie there with her forever, the pads of his fingers skimming over her bare shoulders until they both drifted off. Surely he wouldn’t have left her there alone in this place he hated so much.

Another twist went through her stomach. Yes, he would. The lines between her hatred and love for him sometimes were terribly skewed. He wouldn’t care at all to leave her there if it suited him. She had to remember that.

Convincing herself that maybe he’d gone off to find the loo, Olive curled up under the blankets and waited maybe another quarter hour before throwing the bedding off and exposing her naked form to the chill. She was quick to get up and throw on the same clothes from the evening before, struggling just as much getting her boots on as she had getting them off.

Dressed, Olive darted quickly down the stairs to be met, once more, with the horrid sight of the hallway beyond his bedroom door. It seemed even more daunting without Dreagan as her guide. She navigated the missing and chipped floorboards and again found herself at the terrifying staircase. For a moment she just stared down at the next level, gauging whether the fall would kill her if it collapsed. It wasn’t her life she particularly cared about, so much as the life growing inside her.

Drifting up the stairs from somewhere on the first floor was a male voice. Olive couldn’t distinguish well enough to tell if it was Dreagan or not. Shifting from foot to foot, she debated. Should she avoid the voices or seek them out? The question of Scabior’s whereabouts burned her.

She would seek them out. Swallowing the thick knot in her throat, Olive clung to the bannister and took the stairs one step at a time. About halfway down, the stairs let out a terrible moan beneath her and the voice abruptly stopped. She supposed it wouldn’t matter whether she’d wanted to avoid the voices anyway because she’d given herself away.

The groan of the stairs had been enough to prompt her in taking the rest quite quickly and Olive reached the bottom of the stairs right as Bastian rounded the corner and appeared.

“Good morning, Olive,” he said, smirk again present. “The house elves were just bringing breakfast, come.”

Olive stood stock still. “Where is Dreagan?” she asked cautiously, hand still gripping the banister.

Bastian’s face was as still as her own, though looked slightly more amused. “He’s gone out,” he said with a note of finality. “Come and eat with Mother and I.”

“Where has he gone out to?” she bantered back.

Bastian gave a small smile and huffed a laugh. “I’ll explain it over breakfast,” he said with a grin. “No wonder my brother took to you, you’re as suspicious as he is.”

Olive did not move an inch.

“I assure you, I haven’t poisoned the jam jars,” he added with a certain amused smirk.

After a moment’s deliberation, she deduced that if he’d wanted to cause her harm, he would have already done so. Olive’s hand slid off the banister as she took an uncertain step toward him. Bastian held out his hand, which she ignored. Dreagan would not like that. The man’s amusement only grew as he moved his hand to motion toward the hallway. “This way,” he said. Olive took a step and he fell in stride beside her.

This hall was just as dismal as the others. Large chunks of plaster were littered along the edges of the room. A chandelier hung haphazardly at an angle. Bastian seemed unfazed. The further they went down the corridor, the more a second voice grew. A woman’s. It seemed at first the distance was causing the voice to be distorted, but the closer they strode toward it, the more Olive realized the voice itself was off. Muttering, almost. Insane, more so.

Finally Bastian motioned to an open archway, which led into a large dining room with formal settings. The beauty of the objects was marred with age and dust. A woman - their mother, Olive quickly deduced, looking a bit older than in the photo upstairs and much less sharp around the eyes - was staring and muttering, _“Mira, Mira, Mira, my only girl.”_

“Mother,” Bastian said, pulling out a chair to the left of their mother and motioning for Olive to sit. She did as she was told, looking apprehensively at the woman. “This is Dreagan’s wife, Olive. You have not met.”

The woman blinked and stared at Olive blankly. Then a wide grin grew and she nodded her head. “Pretty girl,” she muttered with approval. “Pretty girl, sour blood.”

“Don’t pay her any mind,” Bastian said, around the table and taking the place opposite Olive. “She always had a knack for smelling out the mudbloods. She’s utterly harmless, I assure you. Quite mad, I’m afraid, but harmless nonetheless.”

Olive only flinched a little when he said mudblood. She was glad for the arrival of the house elf and the opportunity to focus on asking after something to drink. Afterward, the table settled into uncomfortable silence. Olive looked at her hands, aware that both mother and son were staring at her.

“There’s a baby,” the woman said in a sudden whisper. Olive looked up and saw her staring at the pregnant bulge pressed between Olive’s spine and the table.

“Yes, Mother,” Bastian said. “That’s your grandchild.”

The house elves reappeared with Olive’s juice and a few stacked plates of sweet breads and eggs. Her mouth watered.

“Mixed blood,” the woman said, that hardness returning to her eyes which Olive saw in the photograph. Bastian paused for a moment and looked over his mother. As if a breath leaving her, the sharp look dissolved and her eyes went hazy again, moving to the spot behind Olive’s shoulder on the wall.

“Yes, Mother, the baby will have mixed blood,” Bastian said as the moment passed. He seemed pleasant enough about it. The conversation reminded Olive of her Nan, whose old age brought forth many old prejudices she’d held. She and her dad simply overlooked it when Nan would start muttering off madly about the Greeks.

But Nan had gone funny with age. This woman - only then did Olive realize she didn’t know her name - was not nearly old enough for that to have set in. She thought of the sharpness of the woman’s eyes, the ferocity she held at the thought of a mixed blood child, and wondered if perhaps there was something afoul. Bastian had laughed at her suspiciousness.

From there, the three ate in relative silence. Months in the woods with less-than-quality men nearly made her forget her manners. Bastian was staring at her until she remembered herself and took her elbows from the table. Only then did he continue his meal.

Though bursting to ask, she managed to wait until they’d finished eating before bringing up the mystery again.

“So, uh,” she started, placing her hands in her lap and trying to sit a bit taller. Perhaps it was Bastian’s perfect posture or the way their mother still ate with with squared shoulders despite her mental state that made Olive aware of how awkward her limbs felt. She clenched her fists under the table to prevent herself from sitting on her hands. “About Dreagan.”

 _“Mira, Mira,”_ the woman suddenly wailed, bursting into tears. Bastian’s jaw tightened and he made a motion to the house elf in the corner, who nodded and was gone with a crack.

“Olive, please,” he said, just as cordial as he’d been since the day before. “Would you mind waiting out in the foyer? As you can see, the subject upsets my mother and I will have the house elves tend to her and then meet you at the stairs to talk.”

Olive was in shock at the sudden outburst, unable to take her eyes from the ugly way the woman’s face twisted. _“HE TOOK HER. MY ONLY DAUGHTER,”_ she screamed.

“Olive?” Bastian said. It was enough to jog her back into her right mind. Her head snapped in his direction and she gave a curt nod before pushing herself away from the table - the chair screeching against the floor only adding to the chaos of noise.

“Of course, sorry,” she said, ducking her head and hurrying from the room. The woman’s wailing only seemed amplified the further away Olive got and she wondered if it had heightened or if it was her imagination.

Once she reached the staircase, it was impossible to ignore the woman. There was a crash of dishes and the murmurings of Bastian trying to soothe his mother. Olive felt awkward, as if she was prying on something she ought not be seeing. Where was Dreagan through all this? Why would he have left her here with no answers, no note, nothing?

Silence stretched suddenly and there were a few cracks, which she figured to be more house elves coming or going. There was a pregnant pause and then sharp footsteps, which she correctly deduced to be Bastian’s.

He rounded the corner, straightening the cuffs of his shirt. “I apologize that you had to see that,” he said, motioning down the hallway opposite the direction they’d just come. Olive was glad they didn’t need to brave the stairs just quite yet. “Mother has not quite been herself and all the recent happenings have...upset her condition.”

Olive only nodded, a large knot lodged in her throat. “Please,” Bastian said. “My office is just through here.”

He led her down the opposite corridor, which did seem to be in better repair than the rest of the house. There were still a few cracks in the plaster walls, but it was otherwise maintained. Bastian led her through a door into a handsome office, the walls lined with leather-bound books. An oak desk dominated the space, accompanied by a smart, green leather chair. No sooner than the door was closed did Olive blurt, _“Where is Dreagan?”_

Bastian seemed intimidating in different ways than Dreagan. She did not feel physically threatened by him, but she sensed there was a bigger game at play that she was being kept from.

“He went to find Greyback,” Bastian said simply, turning away from the door and striding to his desk. He stood in front of it, facing her. The distance between them was just close enough to be uncomfortable. “To get back our sister. As I understand it, you have a bit of history with Greyback yourself. He wanted you kept as far away from it as possible.”

A warm feeling flooded her stomach. She felt...oddly protected. Olive didn’t know what to think about the fluttering in her stomach.

“Yes, but why?” she asked. “Why is your sister with Greyback? Why would he have taken her? Why not hurt Dreagan or me? It’s us he has the problems with.”

Bastian’s eyebrows shot up. He studied Olive’s face closely. “Because Mira would be an eye for an eye,” he said slowly. “You do know about Lysia, don’t you?”

Even the mere mention of the name made her feel angry. “I know of her,” she said, perhaps a bit too hotly.

“You know that she was Fenrir’s younger sister?”

Olive’s stomach nearly dropped out. Her head spun. “No,” she muttered quickly. “What do you mean, so Dreagan _dated_ Greyback’s sister?”

Bastian stared at her and she could tell he was wondering if he should go on. He turned his back toward her and poured himself a drink from the decanter on his desk.

“He dated her,” he said, pointedly taking his time to not face her. “He also killed her.”


End file.
